


The Light Within

by FiddlingCrispo



Category: K (Anime), K Project
Genre: Canon Compliant, Gen, Multi, Multiple Relationships, Other, Scepter 4 centric, shipping subject to interpretation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-20
Updated: 2016-06-14
Packaged: 2018-05-21 23:17:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 126,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6061807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FiddlingCrispo/pseuds/FiddlingCrispo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Novelisation of Fushimi's new life at Scepter 4 after the events from K - Lost Small World. The story follows Fushimi as he works (and sulks) his way up the social ladder at the Intelligence Division and later to the Special Ops Squad. Scepter 4-centric. Canon compliant. Novel and manga tie-ins & fillers aplenty. Munakata/Fushimi/Awashima/Scepter 4 all</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Boarding School

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: I started on this a month ago on ff and thought I might just do the same here. I'm new to AO3 so any errors in formatting & layout are mine. This story starts with Fushimi joining Scepter 4 and will cover the two year period up till Totsuka's murder. There will be plot tie-ins to K SIDE:BLUE, K R:B, Days of Blue, Memory of Red, and Lost Small World. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I am not one of GoRA and I do not own the K universe.

 

_‘… Close to the sun in lonely lands,_

_Ring’d with the azure world, he stands.’_

_(Alfred Lord Tennyson’s The Eagle)_

  

 

Fushimi stared at the interior of the room, his hand sliding down the doorknob to his side and his mouth held slightly askew, a _tsk_ pending at his lips.

Granted, he had not thought too much about it when Munakata mentioned that joining Scepter 4 means living in dormitories. For Heaven’s sake Scepter 4 is an organisation, not a boarding school. And who in his right mind would choose to live in a boarding house just yards from the building where they go to work every morning? Fushimi had guessed that people from the Blue Clan were rather enclosed, but this was too much, almost below the belt.

He was staring at two people, young men in their early or mid twenties by the looks of it, sitting cross-legged on the floor facing each other, as if trying to stare each other into submission. Between the two men lay a chessboard. Apparently they were in the heat of a contest or something. But the sound Fushimi made when opening the door had distracted them. Fushimi blinked, and realised post-blinking that the two men had rested their eyes on him. _Tsk_.

One of them began, sounding uncertain. ‘Who are you?’

A detached analytical part of Fushimi’s brain knew these men were not to blame. He _was_ new, after all; he looked no older than his age, and he was not wearing a blue uniform. He could even pass as the child of some older clerk he just caught a glimpse of outside the Records Office. But knowing all these did not mean he was okay with whatever these men had to say in his presence.

‘I’m Fushimi,’ he said simply, and could not be bothered apologising about having mistaken the two men’s room number for his own, which was down the other end of the corridor, seemingly a world apart.

The man looked hard at him. Fushimi noticed his hair was brushed back from his forehead in a peculiar way and tied to a knot at the back; there were no lines in his face, but he had the air of someone much more mature than his chess mate.

‘Oh, hello. I’m Kamo.’

‘I’m Hidaka,’ the chess mate chimed in with a grin. ‘Are you the pizza delivery boy? I ordered a large pepperoni just then.’

With Kamo frowning and Hidaka grinning at him, Fushimi felt trapped, as if something heavy was pressing down on him. He turned without a word and walked down the corridor, hearing the door shut behind him with a bang. What these men make of him was not his concern, not the slightest bit. He may have to live with these people in the same goddamned building and on the same goddamned floor, but it was Scepter 4 he joined, not these men. He did not have to pretend to be on amiable terms with them, and did not want to. Christ, what was that thing behind them, a bunk bed? Do they share the same room? Even boarding schools allocate single rooms; this is worse than a boarding school. 

Fushimi found his own room at the end of the corridor. On the door was a name plate with no name written on it. He pushed the door open. The room was empty and had the air of long term disuse, but the floor was clean, as was what bare furniture it contained: a bunk bed, a writing desk, and a longish wardrobe to the side. Surprisingly the room smelt of fresh air, as if someone had just opened the window long enough to allow plenty of circulation. And it did not look like another occupant was living here. 

_Perhaps you are allowed to have a room all to yourself until the Captain hires another new guy_. Fushimi thought wearily, and walked in, closing the door behind him. If anything, the room reminded him almost painfully of his and Yata’s old flat. But with him gone, Yata would be living there all by himself now; or had he already moved out as well? The flat was rather ramshackly to begin with; he wondered how they had managed to live there for two whole years.

But Yata was irrelevant; it had to be like this ever since he caught up with Fushimi in that little lane and watched Fushimi burn off the Homra insignia on his collarbone. Yata had been shocked, had declared Fushimi a traitor, and had grown so furious he almost melted the air with the fire aura around his entire body. The power of the Red Clan symbolises destruction, but Fushimi knew only too well that he did not part with Yata because of that. 

Fushimi kicked off his shoes and flopped on the lower bunk, feeling drained. Munakata had been wrong when he suggested Fushimi take minimum amount of luggage with him; he had taken nothing, because there was nothing he wanted to take from the old flat. And now lying on his back with eyes staring up at the belly of the top bunk, Fushimi grimaced at the thought of decorating this room and trying to make it his own. He disliked imposing his personality on inanimate objects; it was such a stupid, childish thing, decorating your own room. It’s just like dogs marking their territories, only slightly more civilised.

He jerked up at the sound of someone knocking on the door, heart pounding.

‘Are you in there, Fushimi?’ 

Fushimi recognised the voice, and remained still. The voice seemed to have sensed him, and subsided. The door opened, revealing the Blue King, clad in his immaculate uniform. Fushimi’s eyes followed Munakata from the door to the bedside like a wounded animal regarding the hand that came in from outside the cage, unsure whether it was going to strike him or stroke him.

Munakata stopped by the bedside and looked down at Fushimi. As usual, Fushimi caught the polite, almost perfunctory smile, and felt the stir of annoyance.

‘I didn’t say I was here, did I?’

‘No indeed,’ agreed Munakata rather serenely. ‘What do you think of your room?’

Fushimi glanced around. What did he think of it? He would not admit it was better than his old flat, because it should not be.

‘… it doesn’t matter. One place is just as good or bad as the next.’

He did want to ask Munakata about having to share the room with someone, though, but dreaded hearing the answer he was secretly anticipating. So he said nothing, and settled to fixing his eyes on a tiny shard of light on Munakata’s left boot. Can you actually polish boots till they shine?

‘Hmm, if that is what you think,’ came Munakata’s voice from above, sounding as unfazed as usual. ‘But this will be your very own room for as long as you serve in Scepter 4. Will you not try and make yourself comfortable?’

Fushimi looked up, surprised. _His very own room_?

‘I thought it was a share room?’

‘I said nothing of the kind. You must have visited other rooms and are now making assumptions, Fushimi. Allow me to ask you this: do you actually want a share room?’

‘No, ‘course not.’

‘Then it will _not_ be a share room to you,’ Munakata’s tone was pleasant, and so matter-of-fact he might have been talking about the weather. ‘Come to my office when you are ready. There are a few things we need to discuss before your Installation Ceremony.’

Fushimi got to his feet without saying anything. Ever since their first encounter, he knew almost instinctively that Munakata was not the sort to demand verbal replies when actions alone would suffice. Munakata glanced at him with a soft smile, and turned.

‘You are quite organised, Fushimi.’

To which Fushimi gave a noncommittal shrug and trailed after Munakata.

 

**†**

  
****

Fushimi loathed ceremonies, and most of all the brouhaha that heralds them. What does this Installation Ceremony entail? Given the kind of organisation that Scepter 4 is famous (or rather infamous) for, it has to be long and pompous. What was the Test at Homra like again? It had been called _the Test_ simply because the Red King hated long and pompous words. You pass the Test if grabbing the King’s hand doesn’t burn you to a crisp, and you fail if… well, you wouldn’t be here to tell the story if you failed. 

And the Captain’s Office was pomposity at its most irritating. Had it seen better days when some other official resided here, Fushimi had no idea. Not that he cared much, either. Fushimi closed the door behind him, feeling the heavy weight of the panel pressing against his palm. Behind the mahogany desk stood a chair that looked disturbingly like a throne, and next to the desk stood a tall blond female in starched navy blue uniform designed with noticeable difference to the men’s. Fushimi put both hands back in his trouser pockets and followed Munakata, bracing himself for having to greet another person. And an important one, by the looks of it.

‘Sir,’ the blond female saluted Munakata as he approached her with Fushimi tagging along. The way she held herself reminded Fushimi that Scepter 4 was, after all, part police and part military.  

Munakata stepped aside to reveal Fushimi, ‘This is FUSHIMI Saruhiko, of the Intelligence Division. Fushimi, this is Lieutenant AWASHIMA Seri.’

The Lieutenant, huh. Fushimi glanced up and found Awashima looking at him, almost sizing him up. 

‘So you are the one the Captain hired from the Red Clan?’ 

_As if you needed confirmation from me when your Captain had told you that._ ‘Yes.’

‘Ms Awashima, I need to talk to Fushimi about the upcoming Installation Ceremony. If you will excuse us.’

Awashima looked like she wanted to expand on the subject of Fushimi as a former Red Clansman, but dropped the idea at Munakata’s words. 

‘Of course. Pardon my intrusion, sir. Please excuse me.’ 

Fushimi turned to let Awashima pass, to which she paused and regarded him with the same impassive yet measuring look.

 ‘Come to the meeting room when you are finished here. I will be waiting.’

_Tsk, another one-to-one on the horizon._

Munakata did not resume until Awashima had closed the door and her footsteps faded away on the other side. ‘What do you think of Lieutenant Awashima, Fushimi?’

‘No idea. If anything she’s rather like you.’

Munakata smiled at the repartee, ‘She brought this for you. Come.’

Fushimi complied, and saw a sabre on Munakata’s desk. Under the light streaming in from the window, the sheath and handle glistened with polish. It was obviously new, and did not look even slightly different from the sabre Fushimi had seen fastened on Munakata or Awashima’s coat.

‘So everyone in Scepter 4 uses this. I see.’

‘The power of the Blue is encased in the sabre. To unsheathe it is to unleash the Blue Aura. Every member of Scepter 4 practises swordsmanship to better utilise their power. This will be yours after the Installation.’ 

‘You mean like in kendo, but fancier.’

‘If you prefer it that way,’ there was a note of concession in Munakata’s voice, and something else. Something Fushimi had trouble deciphering. 

‘Hmm, whatever.’

‘My, my, I thought you would have perhaps shown some enthusiasm at that. Did you know that everyone in Scepter 4 names their own sabre?’

Fushimi looked up into Munakata’s face. _Now he’s off again._ With that voice, even titbits sound like matters of tremendous importance. Talk of pomposity at its finest and most irritating, tsk.

‘I don’t see the point in naming a weapon.’

‘Hmm, that is unfortunate. I have thought of a rather nice name for yours, in case you could not. What do you think of the name “Subaru”?’

‘It’s not much for me to say. I don’t care about names. A weapon is a weapon. Period.’

Even as he spoke, Fushimi doubted Munakata was actually listening. The Blue King was looking at the sabre on the desk as though looking at something alive and asleep.

‘It seems that you do not understand the idea behind naming. Put it this way, you believe that a sabre is a sabre. How would you refer to your sabre when you are talking to another person about it? Presumably just “my sabre” or “it”, is it? With a name, no matter where you are or whom you are talking to, Subaru is your sabre, and vice versa. Subaru would not be called anything else, and would not exist as anything else.’

Fushimi couldn’t help but suspect Munakata was just talking for the sake of talking, ’What are you driving at?’

Munakata looked him straight in the eye, ’For me, to name something is to bring it into existential significance, to acknowledge the object in question as more than just _something_. When you name your sabre Subaru, it becomes more than just your weapon. There is a connection forged between the name giver and the named. It is a baptism of sorts.’

A tiny part of Fushimi’s brain still sneered at the way Munakata philosophised, but his thoughts had drifted away. Yata had called him a traitor; he had been branded a traitor by the one and only person that was his friend. Had been his friend. If what Munakata said was true, he, Fushimi, would exist as a traitor as long as Yata considered him one. And that would probably be for the rest of his life. But they also called one another by their first names even after the fallout; they were still unique to one another in that regard. Surely being the only person to call someone by their first name meant something, even if that something was buried beneath intangible thoughts and desires and the pain of flame against flesh, of burning away the insignia that once whispered something akin to belonging _._

_‘_ I hope someday you will come to understand that, and Subaru.’

At the last word, Fushimi’s eyes fell on the sabre. It didn’t matter whether he would or would not understand it; Munakata had first mentioned the name seconds before, and yet Fushimi’s brain had linked the name to the thing itself, had grown so used to the idea his eyes simply sought it out on reflex. So much for the power of naming something, huh.

 

**†**

  
****

 

Fushimi pushed open the door to the meeting room and wished it had finished already, only to find Lieutenant Awashima waiting at the table just as she had said she would. _Why can’t she go back to work? Do lieutenants work at all?_

_‘_ How did it go, Fushimi? _’_

At least she didn’t ask what he thought of the Captain. Realising he even felt a slight twinge of relief about it, Fushimi smiled wryly and allowed his body to unwind a bit. 

The next moment, Awashima seemed to have noticed the slightest droop in the way Fushimi stood in front of her, and prompted with a frown. ‘So?’

‘Just what you’d expect from the Captain, I guess.’

‘And what is that supposed to mean?’

‘Means no surprises. The Captain showed me Su- my sabre, and told me a few things and whatnot about the Installation, is all.’

‘Is that so,’ Awashima sounded satisfied, though the look she gave Fushimi suggested otherwise. ‘I have been looking at your files. Now that you are here, I’d like to go through a few things with you, just as a procedure of confirmation.’

‘As you wish.’

Awashima frowned again: the sarcasm did not escape her notice. Few things did, come to think of it. 

‘Your name is FUSHIMI Saruhiko?’ 

‘Yes.’

‘Former affiliation: Team Homra, the Red Clan?’

‘Yes.’ _Tsk._

‘Initiation into Scepter 4: personal recommendation by Captain Munakata?’

‘Like I’d know that. Why don’t you ask him yourself?’

Awashima gave him a stern look. Fushimi was very much aware that his schoolboy-ish shirt, jumper and jeans could not disguise the way he held himself in front of her: she probably saw him as a brat, a hooligan from Homra, standing there resting most of his weight on one leg and looking at people from the corner of his eyes as if everyone owed him big time.

‘I most certainly will ask the Captain. Thank you very much for reminding me.’

Fushimi was unfazed by the bite of sarcasm in her voice. She was just retaliating, and damn good at that. At least there’s one person in this building who takes offence and doesn’t bother hiding it.

‘My pleasure.’

Another stern look, ‘Current placement: Intelligence Division?’

‘Yes.’

‘Age?’

‘Is that relevant?’

‘I am asking you. Your age??’

‘Tsk. Sixteen.’

Awashima looked at him closely, reminding Fushimi of some mind-reading character in one of the video games he played with Yata when they were at school; the character would look at someone like this because he could tell by doing so if they were lying. 

‘All clear,’ said Awashima, ticking off something on the front page of the document she was holding. ‘So you _are_ younger than this other person the Captain recruited earlier. ’

Fushimi had no idea who this other person was, and cared less, ’If that’s all you need to confirm - ’

‘We are not even half done with it,’ Awashima raised her voice. ‘As you are aware, working in Scepter 4 means wearing a uniform at all times. You need to have yours measured. Come with me.’

They met someone on their way, someone who saluted Awashima and even greeted Fushimi with a nod. Fushimi suspected the person only did it because he was walking with the lieutenant. In the front yard they met a group of men on their way back to the dorm after having had a break somewhere out. Fushimi recognised the younger of the two chess players he ran into earlier, Hidaka or something, who had one arm around another person’s shoulder and was apparently in high spirits.

‘… so you know I got that from him in the end, don't you? And dirt cheap too. What a funny bloke. He said he’d give me two copies each when I told him I live with a roommate. Two copies each, you got that?’

Awashima cleared her throat. Hidaka’s eyes fell on her, seemed to bulge for a nanosecond or two, and his whole body froze to a halt as he clicked his heels together in an impromptu salute like everyone else in the little group.

‘Where have you been?’

‘We just - had a stroll in town, ma’am. We are off duty today,’ someone Fushimi did not know replied.  

‘Is that so,’ for a fleeting moment Awashima glanced sideways at Fushimi as if cautioning him against what he just witnessed. Fushimi sensed it, as did everyone of the little group apparently. Fushimi saw all the eyes fall on him, and felt his ears grow warm in irritation.

‘Hey,’ said Hidaka loudly, pointing at Fushimi. ‘If it isn’t you I met earlier. Fushimi, is it? What are you doing here with Lieutenant Awashima?’

The group began to whisper among themselves. 

‘What’s a child doing here?’ 

‘He’s younger than that little fellow Domyoji!’ 

‘Are we having a Bring Your Family to Work Day or something?’

The whispers ceased abruptly as Awashima gave the group another look, ‘Enough. This is FUSHIMI Saruhiko of the Intelligence Division. You may find yourselves working together one day, so mind the way you talk.’

Fushimi followed wordlessly as Awashima left, leaving the group in a discordant silence that did not last long. Fushimi could hear them bursting into chitchats again before he and Awashima entered the Records Office.

‘Another kiddo in Scepter 4?!’

‘Talk of the younger generation entering the labour force! Is he out of school yet?’

‘Isn’t it illegal to hire schoolboys?’

Fushimi’s hands clenched into fists inside his trouser pockets.

‘Just ignore them,’ came Awashima’s voice as if she could sense what Fushimi was thinking. ‘They say _women_ like to gossip, but working at Scepter 4 teaches you otherwise.’

‘Which Division are those people in?’

‘Swords. We have four squads numbered one to four. They are Scepter 4’s soldiers.’

‘All brawn and no brains, huh. ’

‘Did you say something?’

‘No. Nothing.’

Awashima turned to look at him, ‘You may need to have your uniform measured again next year. So don’t think this is once and for all and over with.’

‘What for?’

‘By this time next year, you are likely to have grown out of your current uniform. You would only do your reputation as member of Scepter 4 a disservice if you wore uniform that barely fit, wouldn’t you?’ 

 

 

 


	2. An Honest Mistake

_‘Society, as we have constituted it,_

_will have no place for me,_

_has none to offer; …’_

_(De Profundis by Oscar Wilde)_

 

Four days after the Installation Ceremony and the capture of the Minato twins, Fushimi woke up with all the telltale signs of an impending cold, and found himself the centre of much unwanted attention as he entered the Information Room.

The Information Room served as a workstation of sorts for staff of the Intelligence Division, but unlike the Meeting Room, it had a lounge area in one corner, complete with couches, tables, a self-serve coffee machine and a vending machine, and was open 24/7 to pretty much everyone who cared to drop in for a snack. Fushimi had learnt to steer clear of the area and keep to his own corner down the opposite end of the room, but to get there, he had to come in through the one door that opened directly onto the lounge and get an eyeful of whoever was on coffee break, or pretended to be.

Which happened to be half a dozen men ready to leave for the training field on this particular morning. Fushimi recognised one of them from the mission a few days before: Ishizuka, the commander of the small unit dispatched to ambush the Minato brothers. He had been openly put off by the idea of having Fushimi on the mission, and now seemed downright annoyed to find Fushimi at the door to the Information Room.

‘Well, well, if it isn’t young Mr Fushimi, the former Red Clansman.’ 

It was the same voice that told Fushimi off for acting on his own. The men around had stopped chatting. Fushimi paused over the doorstep, took in the look of shrewd scrutiny on Ishizuka’s face, and without a word walked down the length of the room towards his own corner. There were two other people there working on their individual laptops; one seemed distracted by Ishizuka’s voice and was glancing in his and Fushimi’s direction behind thick round glasses.

Fushimi came to the back table where the huge console was stationed and unlocked the screen with a swipe of his PDA. The holograph sprang to life, lighting up like a Christmas tree and sprouting numbers and graphs, through which half the room lay phosphorescent and glistening; Fushimi watched as Ishizuka approached him, followed by the eyes of the men from behind and those of the bespectacled Intel member off one side.

Ishizuka paused one step short of penetrating the holograph, ‘Did you not hear me?’ he didn’t sound threatening, just cranky, the way a programmer was cranky at his bug-ridden code because it wasn’t compiling.

Only Fushimi was no piece of bug-ridden code that ought to have been compiling. They glared at one another across the holograph. Fushimi thought Ishizuka must be late for his swordsmanship training; apparently this man’s moral compass dictated that picking on an Intel person was way more life-affirming than being punctual for his job. _Classic_.

‘I assume you’ve read my report on the Minato twins case?’

Fushimi had not, but Munakata had quoted to him bits and pieces when he summoned Fushimi to the Captain’s Office the day before. 

‘Yeh, sort of.’

‘Well, I think I’ve made it quite clear. Just because you caught the Minato twins all by yourself doesn’t mean you can now strut about like you owned the place. You used to be a Red Clansman, and applying the Red Aura to a Scepter 4 sabre is just about the last thing you can do to earn our trust.’

Fushimi’s head throbbed, but not from the cold, ‘Like I’m here to earn your _damned_ trust. ’

Ishizuka turned white, ’You bastard-!’

‘Enough, you two!’ came another voice from the side of the room. Ishizuka almost snapped; the speaker was one of the two men on the computer, the one without glasses. Fushimi remembered seeing him once on the training field when he was passing: this man certainly looked more like a trooper than an office person.

‘Cut it out before the Lieutenant hears you.’

‘Akiyama?’ Ishizuka stared and appeared to have just recognised who was talking. ‘Why are you in the Intel Div?’

‘Just getting logs from the database. The Records Office needs them. I’m not in for morning training today, before you ask.’

Fushimi sat down behind the console. Tackling Ishizuka had thrust him to the end of his tether, and he had work to do. He touched the console screen and dismissed some of the dialogues that had been popping up one over another: they were feedback from the system backup program he had left running overnight. The security system at Scepter 4’s Intelligence Division was not as invincible as what he had expected from a police organisation that deals with special crime cases on a daily basis. 

‘Fushimi, is it?’

Tsk. First Ishizuka. Now him. 

‘Yes.’

‘We at the Swords Division have been hearing a lot about you since the Minato twins case,’ Akiyama sounded neither critical nor complimentary, just matter-of-fact, and so proper it bordered on irritating. 

‘So?’

Fushimi saw Akiyama shrug over the reflection from the holograph, ‘Nothing. Just thought you should perhaps think about getting along with other people a bit. It can be tricky, what with your background and everything. But it can be done.’

Fushimi was acutely aware that everyone in the room still had their eyes on him. He glanced up at Akiyama, taking in his funny-looking bang over one eye, and the way he buttoned up his shirt. Akiyama must have been a straight A student right from primary school days, lapping up every rule and regulation dictated by every institution he was ever institutionalised in. Who else would button his shirt to the degree of self-strangulation and talk in such a way that every syllable reeked of overinflated ego?

‘Whatever.’

Akiyama seemed to be taking the brief moment to have a good look at him, and spoke before Fushimi could return to the console screen, ‘You don’t look very well. Are you all right?’

Fushimi felt a surge of irritation, ’Leave me alone.’

‘Don’t be a mother hen, Akiyama,’ called Ishizuka from the lounge area. ‘The kid can brood and stew for as long as he likes and eventually the Captain will see through that.’

Akiyama looked like he wanted to say something more, but thought better of it when Fushimi glared at him from across the holograph.

 

**†**

 

To put it in his own words, ENOMOTO Tatsuya had been the Chief Drudge of the Intelligence Division for devil knows how long until Fushimi came on board.

Which of course was a fairly recent occurrence. Enomoto remembered the Friday morning exactly a fortnight ago when the Captain visited him in the Information Room and at the crack of dawn. He, Enomoto, the self-professed Chief Drudge, had been banging his head against a holographed screen (not that it was actually tangible) over the amount of system storage he would need to procure before proceeding to an upgrade. Yes, he knew he wasn’t the only Intel person; in fact he had a whole team of assistants under him, but he was the smartest, and had been priding himself on being a computer nerd both at and off work. He had stayed behind when the others turned in for the night, and after a whole night of toiling alone on a diet of black coffee and chewing gum, realised that he simply could _not_ upgrade Scepter 4’s security system without shutting down and of course paralysing the entire intranet.

Of course, Enomoto would not breathe a single word of lament in front of the Captain. Not when the Captain apparently had something to talk to him about. That was when Enomoto first met Fushimi, who was almost hidden from view behind the Captain’s back, a slight, peaky young teen who looked like he could do with a few trips to the seaside and more than a few square meals from the cafeteria. Having met Domyoji just days earlier, Enomoto was not surprised to find another apparently school-age employee following the Captain around. 

Only he had no idea what Fushimi had up his sleeve. The kid was yet to receive his sabre and uniform, but the Captain simply left him there, having told Enomoto to look after his ‘new colleague.’ And Enomoto had tried to talk to Fushimi, hoping they might share the same hobbies computing-wise, but Fushimi had looked at him as if he were a drunk puppy chasing its own tail, and after one swift glance at the holographed screen, asked him why he left the system upgrade program mid-execution. 

‘We don’t have enough disk space for system backup. If I run the upgrade without doing the backup, I’d jam the intranet transmission and people from other Divs would strangle me.’ Enomoto was not one to fool around when it came to business. Fushimi may look young, but the Captain had declared him a colleague, and a colleague he would be. So Enomoto related the issue as though he would to a colleague he had known for a long time.

And then Fushimi had typed some kind of hotkey on the keyboard and brought up a dialogue Enomoto did not even know existed. It was a list of their disk allocation, Division by Division, program by program, ‘Why did you reserve space for stuff you could either compress or format?’ Apparently Fushimi had a very different approach to utilising disk space; had Enomoto’s plan worked he would probably have made a stand for his choice, but his plan had failed, and he was ready to switch to a new plan whatever the result might be. So he swapped seats with Fushimi and watched. Fushimi ended up typing his commands via the terminal, and refreshed the disk allocation dialogue after having disabled most of Enomoto’s favourite graphic interface. Enomoto was flabbergasted: Fushimi had managed to get just enough space for System Backup Phase I.

And that was basically what the two of them had been doing over the past fortnight. Bit by bit they tested and switched off many of the glossy visual features of the security system and used the precious free space for the backup. Meanwhile Fushimi passed his Installation Ceremony, and the next morning Enomoto found it disconcerting seeing him in the navy blue uniform instead of shirt and jeans. 

And then just as they were about to enter System Backup Phase II, Fushimi was assigned to Operation Catch the Minato Twins, leaving no instructions as to how things should proceed in his absence. Together with his team of technicians, Enomoto had tried to figure it out but was not successful. 

That was when Enomoto realised what it means to have Fushimi in the Intelligence Division, and he stopped calling Fushimi a kid, even allowing himself an apologetic little smile when mentioning Fushimi in front of his fellow technicians.

Even so, Enomoto would not venture so far as to surmise his relationship with Fushimi was a friendly one. They worked together well enough, but theirs was a chemistry that also raised bars. Talking to Fushimi about anything that isn’t work-related means driving him up the wall, and Enomoto understood only too well how important it was for an Intel person to stay with both feet on the ground and away from the wall, quite literally.

Which was also why he kept his silence when Ishizuka accosted a rather ill-looking Fushimi just now. It might be a cowardly thing to do, but Enomoto didn’t want to risk it. He had way too much risk management to do with his system backup project, after all.

After Ishizuka and his teammates left for the swordsmanship training, Akiyama consulted Enomoto on the data sheet format. That kept Enomoto busy for a while, to the point that he almost forgot Fushimi was already back from his Minato twins mission. Akiyama left for the Records Office a few minutes to 9am. Soon the Intel team would arrive and start their normal 9-5 workday. Such a luxury, working 9 to 5.

Enomoto stood up and stretched till his joints creaked. Behind him came the sound of tongue-clicking. He turned, and saw Fushimi behind the main console. Enomoto thought for a moment, and decided to take the risk for just once in his cautious life. 

He walked to the console, and read the holographed screen, ’How is it going?’

‘Not much, just running through the standard procedures before starting Phase II.’

Enomoto looked down at the touchscreen keyboard, then at Fushimi, who was reading the logs on the screen and scratching a hidden spot beneath his left collar rather forcefully. When his hand returned to the keyboard, Enomoto caught a glimpse of something red where the fabric meets the skin and also on Fushimi’s fingers. It was almost like… 

Fushimi appeared to have noticed it on his fingers as well. With another click of his tongue, he took out his handkerchief and wiped his right hand. The smear was unmistakeable.

‘Are you - bleeding?’ said Enomoto, unable to help himself.

Fushimi visibly started. Apparently he was so immersed in reading the screen he had forgotten that Enomoto was there. Instinctively Enomoto took a step backward, but the deed was done. Fushimi had sprung up from his seat and was glaring at Enomoto so viciously he might well have been a trapped young animal: wound up and exhausted, but dangerous enough to kill.

’S-Sorry.’

There was an open wound beneath Fushimi’s left collar, and the movement had caused it to ooze right through the fabric. Enomoto gasped inwardly, wishing he hadn’t seen it. The stain looked strange, a mixture of bright and dark crimson, like fresh and old blood caught together mid-clotting, tinged with sticky, sap-like liquid; if anything the wound beneath must be a scar, a scar that had just been scratched so hard it became a new wound again. And that pale yellowish liquid had an eerie texture to it, like… pus.

Having a vivid imagination had its drawbacks, and this was one of those moments. Enomoto had a mental image of Fushimi standing alone in his single room, slowly but methodically cutting open the skin on his chest, repeating the same procedure until the blade grazed the bone. A tremor ran through Enomoto like electric current; he wanted to tell Fushimi to stop, beg him even, but Fushimi had this look on his face that plainly said he was ready to murder anyone who dared stand in the way. The Fushimi in Enomoto’s mind overlapped with the Fushimi in front of him; Enomoto took another step back, hips smashing into a chair behind and he almost fell over it.

Fushimi’s eyes followed Enomoto as he straightened up from the near tumble, gasping. For Enomoto, the pain of smashing into a chair had broken the strange tension. His fear was gone, and so was Fushimi’s defensive anger by the looks of it. Without a word Fushimi dropped back to his seat behind the console, and Enomoto walked away clutching his lower back, grimacing, suddenly seized by a strong desire to get away from Fushimi. 

 

 

 

 


	3. Things Meant to be Forgotten

_‘Scars have the strange power to remind us that our past is real.’_

_(Cormac McCarthy)_

 

Fushimi worked at the main console the whole day, leaving only a handful of times for snacks or toilet breaks. He worked until the rest of the Intelligence Division went back shortly after 5pm, then switched the console to standby. Enomoto didn’t turn up; Fushimi had half thought of importing part of the data from his laptop, but found a different solution and bypassed having to ring Enomoto an demand his presence. Fushimi had little faith in talking to people when working alone could solve the issue. 

Now that he was off work, Fushimi became aware of what was happening to his body and clicked his tongue in irritation. What had been a headache in the morning had now become a full-fledged head cold. And there was something else too: the burn over his Homra insignia had been itching and throbbing the previous night as if put on alert by the headache, and after he scratched it in the morning it had bled and clotted and was so painful it felt like a fresh stab wound. Fushimi had no idea what caused it or the cold; it had been raining on and off right since the start of September, so he might have taken a chill from wearing his uniform that never got to dry properly. As for the burn, he probably had to wait till the cold went away. Then the pain in the burn might go away as well.

He began to walk down the staircase, the joints in his legs hurting with every step and sending residual pain shooting right up his torso till it reverberated with his already throbbing head. He met some people on his way back to the dorm; they seemed to be the last training batch of the day, and were also on their way back hoping to sink first thing into a relaxing hot bath. They saw Fushimi and whispered among themselves; some kept throwing backward glances at him, looking apprehensive. Fushimi waited till they disappeared in the building, then sat down at the side door to the dorm, out of deference for the pain which by now had spread all over his body. He didn’t want to sit by the front door: seeing it was the time when everyone headed back from work, he would only get looked and pointed at over and over again.

He unfastened the sabre from his waistband and put it on the ground by his side. It had become a dead weight on the way back, and once or twice he almost tripped over it when his knees throbbed with pain.

‘Fushimi?’

Fushimi started. He hadn’t expected to run into anyone at the side door. The voice sent his adrenaline soaring, not least because it belonged to a female, and a familiar one at that. Un-cradling his knees, Fushimi looked up into the face of the very surprised-looking Lieutenant Awashima, wearing a tank top with a towel around her neck.

‘What are you doing sitting - ’ 

Awashima gasped, clapping both hands to her mouth. Fushimi noticed her eyes had shifted away from his face and down, and followed them. 

His left collar was drenched in blood; so was part of his waistcoat and lapel. This was strange; he had left the wound alone for quite a few hours now: how come it was still oozing blood? 

Before Fushimi could get to his feet and run away, Awashima had lowered herself so that she was on eye level with Fushimi. Fushimi felt a strong urge to scramble away, but Awashima caught his shoulder and, before he could prise her hand off, lifted the blood-soaked collar from his skin. The sensation of fabric tearing from half oozing, half clotted wound sent a shot of hot stabbing pain coursing through his entire body; unable to help himself, Fushimi shuddered and let out a whimper.

Awashima must know he had the Homra insignia carved to his left collarbone. Munakata did too. Fushimi knew they were the few people in Scepter 4 who understood how the Installation with the Red King worked. He even suspected Awashima had seen the burn over it, as he had never intended to hide it in the first place. But he certainly didn’t want anyone to see it the way it was now. He managed to grab Awashima’s wrist, but his hand was shaking from the pain and couldn’t get Awashima to release him. 

The moment of shock was gone from Awashima’s face; she was now examining the open wound over Fushimi’s insignia with a slight frown, ‘It looks infected. How long has it been like this?’

Fushimi bit his lip and made another effort to wriggle away, and succeeded when Awashima finally let go of him. He grabbed his sabre and scrambled to his feet, ‘Just - just leave it. It’s nothing.’

Awashima raised an eyebrow. Fushimi retreated till his back hit the wall, but Awashima didn’t come forward to corner him.

‘The burn seems infected, and you are showing all the symptoms of fever as a result of that,’ her voice was calm enough, but her eyes looked otherwise: they showed something beyond Fushimi’s understanding, something that did not quite match her cold, snip-snap manner. ‘You want to have that wound treated, Fushimi. And make sure it heals properly.’

Fushimi could only thank the Dresden Slate that he didn’t run into anyone else on his way back to his room. Taking off his coat and boots, he climbed to the top bunk and sank face down into it, only to leap up with a gasp of pain as the wound on his collarbone came into contact with the mattress. Groaning, he rolled onto his back and tried to sleep, but the pain took a long time to subside, sending little tremors up and down his entire body as the tension in his joints gradually went away, leaving them throbbing more painfully than before. He wasn’t sure if he could make it to work tomorrow; would Awashima tell Munakata about it and force him to take sick leave until he recovers? Worse still, would he have to go to the doctor’s? Just thinking about going to the doctor’s gave him the creeps; he didn’t even know if Scepter 4 had its own clinic.

Lying on his back, Fushimi toyed with these half-formed thoughts until they became muddled and faded into the background of fatigue and discomfort caused by the fever. 

 

**†**

 

Enomoto went to the cafeteria after the rush hour, and found the rest of the fourth Swords squad there: HIDAKA Akira, FUSE Daiki, and GOTO Ren. Before Enomoto volunteered to help out at the severely short-staffed Intelligence Division, he was a member of the Swords and worked with these three. Christ, it felt like ages since he last attended a training session as a Swords member, what with the intense workload he had to face at Intel as the temporary officer in charge. And the four of them didn’t even get around to having a meal together like this for even longer than that. Working at Intelligence was an eventuation of what Enomoto considered his ‘hobby’ - namely things to do with computers and information processing. Deep down, however, he still saw himself as a Swords person, only not a very competent one like Akiyama or Benzai, who used to serve in the national defence force before joining Scepter 4.

What happened earlier in the Information Room still lingered. The more Enomoto wished he hadn’t seen what lay beneath Fushimi’s left collar, the more it resurfaced to the forefront of his mind, haunting him like the aftereffect of strong alcohol. Enomoto wasn’t sure if he could face the idea of working at the Intelligence Division again because he wasn’t sure how to react with Fushimi around. Could this be a sign for him to abandon his passion-turned-compulsion hobby and return to the Swords?

Enomoto joined his fellow Swordsmen at the table. It was Hidaka who texted him about having a get-together. Hidaka was a fervent believer in keeping up esprit de corps through communal eating.

‘You look like you’ve been run over by a hippo,’ observed Hidaka as Enomoto sat down opposite him. ‘Had a rough day up at a certain div, I guess?’

‘Speaking of the most miserable div at Scepter 4,’ Fuse laughed, shoving an empty plate in Enomoto’s direction. ‘We never thought you’d take this job so seriously. Come on, it’s high time you came back to Swords.’

Enomoto pouted at his plate, ‘You guys haven’t ordered, have you?’

‘Nope. We were one person short.’

‘You know what, Enomoto, we were thinking about having cutlets. I’ll see if I can bribe the dinner ladies into frying up a new batch just for us.’

Enomoto thought of the blood on Fushimi’s collar again, and shuddered, ‘Spare me the cutlet. I’ll go vegetarian today.’

‘Why? What happened?’

Enomoto dodged the question during the first half the meal; then, ‘I think I’ll tell the Captain that I’m coming back to Swords tomorrow.’ He was having pasta while the others munched on their cutlets.

Fuse narrowed his eyes, ‘Does that mean you will return to working on your nerdy projects every night?’ Fuse was Enomoto’s roommate, and had been secretly saying his prayers when Enomoto first put away his computer gadgets a few months ago because he finally got to try his hands at working in the Intelligence Division.

‘You bet. I just feel like coming back. Which of you just said I ought to be back?’

‘It’s fishy when you of all people make a sudden decision, ’ said Goto, looking at him with a touch of suspicion. There was always something going on in Goto’s mind for all they cared.

‘Well, basically I don’t think Intel needs me any more, now that Fushimi is there.’

‘Fushimi the arrogant new kid?’

Enomoto cringed, ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if he became head of the Intel Div first thing tomorrow. I just don’t feel like working with him.’

‘Hmm, that’s understandable.’

‘It’s sudden, though. You survived working with him for a few weeks and you seemed fine.’

‘That’s not what you said the other day,’ said Hidaka, who already started on his second cutlet. ‘Not that you mentioned Fushimi or anything. You just said you were having the time of your life at the Intel Div.’

‘Sarcasm eludes you, Hidaka,’ Fuse pulled away the platter of cutlets before Hidaka could steal one more. ‘You sure you don’t want one of these?’

Enomoto eyed the cutlets with misgiving, ‘No, no, not tonight. It’s all yours.’

‘You are strange today. Did something happen between you and Fushimi? You just said Intel didn’t need you anymore. Did Fushimi kick you out on behalf of the whole div?’

Enomoto thought for a moment, and decided to open up. He had to unless he wanted it browbeaten out of him, ‘I - I think I hit a nerve with Fushimi today. Something happened but I didn’t mean it. Did you guys notice Fushimi has a burn scar on his chest?’

‘Yeh, just a glimpse once or twice. Scared the flip out of me.’

‘What, did he give you a similar burn?’

‘Don’t be an arse, Hidaka. Enomoto can break that kid’s neck with both hands tied behind his back, can’t you, Enomoto?’

Enomoto clutched his head. The confession wasn’t going well, ‘Well, I don’t know if the scar still hurts or something. Fushimi was scratching it this morning and it bled through his clothes. You guys weren’t there, so you’ve no idea. It was shocking. It isn’t an ordinary wound. If you’d seen it - ’

‘I’d never.’

‘Nor I.’

‘Nor I. Not when it sounds as nasty as you make it.’

‘So you see my point,’ said Enomoto. ‘We don’t know how that scar came to be where it is in the first place. But Fushimi is an ex-Red clansman, and the Red Clan as you know has this nasty reputation for being violent. Maybe they did something to Fushimi when he, you know, left them. Like torture or something of the sort. And now he’s showing the Red Clan’s violent tendency by hurting himself and maybe the others if he’s got the chance.’

Fuse stared at him, ’You think the kid is dangerous?’

Enomoto’s right temple started throbbing, ‘Stop calling him a kid. I’ve seen what he can do work-wise. His abilities are way beyond what I could ever dream of. I was almost beginning to understand why the Captain trusts him so much.’

‘But _you_ don’t trust him. _Nobody_ in Scepter 4 does and let’s exclude the Captain.’

‘Lieutenant Awashima does.’

‘Count the Lieutenant out. She trusts Fushimi because the Captain does, and we’ve never asked her opinion anyway, nor the Captain’s. What I’m saying is that just because Fushimi is smart doesn’t mean he’s trustworthy. Look at his records. Look at what the Red Clan does for a living. They are just a bunch of riffraffs.’

And so the confession degenerated into a riot against the Red Clan. Enomoto slurped the last of his pasta and fought down the urge to rest his forehead in the plate, ‘In any case, I’m going to the Captain tomorrow morning.’

‘Yeh, please do. Tell the Captain that the new Intel kid is hurting himself. The last thing we need is a suicide taking place right inside Scepter 4.’

Enomoto was so used to Fuse’s sarcastic repartees he couldn’t tell if Fuse really meant it. As for himself, he wasn’t sure if the thing he felt for Fushimi could be called concern. No one in Scepter 4 knows about Fushimi’s past apart from his previous affiliation with Team Homra. What is the Captain thinking, trusting an ex-Red Clansman who refuses to get along with anyone and has this disturbing habit of hurting himself? 

 

True to his word, Enomoto visited the Captain’s Office first thing the next morning, but Munakata wasn’t there. Enomoto thought he might be having a walk somewhere outside, and went to the training ground. The first training session was just starting with Lieutenant Awashima in the lead, but there was no sign of the Captain. Well, there was a slight possibility that he might be in the Information Room to see how Fushimi was doing. Enomoto stood at the door to the Information Room for a full five minutes. Finally his sense of duty got the better of him; he opened the door.

There was no one in the lounge, and only one or two Intel technicians in the work area, who greeted Enomoto as he came in. Neither the Captain nor Fushimi was here.

‘Have you seen Fushimi?’

‘Mr Fushimi is on leave today, sir.’

‘On leave? By whose authorisation?’

‘The Captain’s, sir. The Captain just came in to say Mr Fushimi would be absent today.’

‘Where’s the Captain now?’

‘I don’t know, sir.’

 

**†**

 

Fushimi had a restless night. Slipping in and out of sleep, there was always a tiny part of his brain that remained feverishly alert. Towards the early hours of the morning he struggled out of bed and went to the shower room. Feeling slightly better afterwards, he changed into casual clothes and sat on the floor, his back against the side of the lower bunk. The shower had cleared his mind a bit, but it also agitated the  wound over his burn scar. He had deliberately avoided looking at the wound when he was in the shower, but even with fresh clean clothes on he could still catch an occasional whiff of blood coming up from under his collar. Despite what Lieutenant Awashima said, the wound didn’t _feel_ infected, so Fushimi spent the rest of the morning thinking how to word his lies about having been to a private clinic and been discharged, until he was startled by the sound of his PDA vibrating. It was a call from Munakata. Fushimi hesitated for a moment, and picked up.

‘Hello, Fushimi speaking.’

‘Hello, Fushimi. This is Munakata. Are you awake yet?’

‘I am thanks to your call,’ it wasn’t true, but Fushimi was annoyed, and didn’t bother to hide it.

‘Excellent. I was thinking about calling on you, but decided to give you a ring first just in case you were still in bed,’ Munakata paused shortly. ‘Will you open the door for me? I am outside.’

Fushimi found it incredible that someone would stand at his door asking him to open it by means of a phone call. He did _not_ want visitors, and least of all Munakata, who always arranged things in a way that left him no alternatives. _Such as right now_. 

‘Open it yourself. It’s unlocked.’

‘Hmm, I will take your word for it. See you shortly, then.’

Fushimi hang up as the door was gently pushed open. In sauntered Munakata, nonchalant and impeccable as ever. Had it been anyone else, Fushimi would have leapt up and punched him in the nose. Right now he merely stared as Munakata approached him.

Munakata took a long, hard look at Fushimi without bending over or sitting down. In fact he might have been examining Fushimi as if he was a piece of half broken furniture, ‘How are you feeling?’

It was a voice used to address an invalid. There was no point in even trying to lie to him; Awashima must have told him about what she saw the previous afternoon. Fushimi shrugged, wincing slightly as the movement sent a fresh burst of pain to his left collarbone, and hating himself for showing even this tad of weakness. He knew Munakata must have read that and understood what was going on in his mind, and kept his disgruntled silence.

Munakata resumed in the same gentle yet distant voice, ‘Ms Awashima visited me last night and informed me of your condition. I think you understand what needs to be done.’

Fushimi glanced up, ‘If you mean going to the doctor’s, no thanks. It’s nothing. I’ve had worse.’

Munakata smiled slightly, ‘It is up to you whether you see a doctor about it, Fushimi. I have no intention of interfering, but I do believe you need a day off.’

If Fushimi was being honest with himself, he would perhaps feel a teeny bit relieved that Munakata suggested it on his behalf. The low fever overnight had worn him out; he wanted nothing more than to curl up into a ball under his blanket and sleep it away. But he remembered what he needed to do at the Information Room; there were reports to draft following the system backup, let alone the upgrade. And he hadn’t started on any of them.

‘I don’t mind working in my own room.’

‘Which reminds me. As of today, Fushimi, you are in charge of the Intelligence Division. Congratulations.’

‘I’m what?!’

‘My, my, always the dejected and disbelieving face. I have said it before, and I will say it again if you wish. You are free to act in any way you see appropriate regarding the running of the Intelligence Division. You do not have to prepare reports _for me_ if you do not wish to, because I personally do not file them. It is the Records and General Affairs Office that files all the reports, so I am afraid you will have to answer to them.’

Fushimi looked into Munakata’s face with a sneer, ’And I’m afraid by promoting me you’ll have to ruffle quite a few feathers at Intel. That Enomoto, for instance.’

‘Mr Enomoto is not in charge of the Intelligence Division in the real sense,’ said Munakata with the voice of a parent explaining some piece of Maths homework for a child. ‘Mr Enomoto is a member of the Swords and Combat Division, and works at the Intelligence Division as relief staff due to his interests and skills in computing. I personally am not aware how Mr Enomoto positions himself with the Intelligence team. But if you like, I can arrange to have a talk with him and ask him to step down.’

‘No, don’t bother. It’s none of my business if anyone at Intel is grumpy about anything.’

‘That is a rather heartless thing to say, but I would expect nothing less from you,’ Munakata smiled, and turned to the window where the sun was beginning to stream in through half closed blinds. ‘Does your Homra insignia still hurt?’

Fushimi hadn’t seen that coming, and felt a sharp twitch in his burn scar that almost confirmed Munakata’s inquiry, ‘It’s not something you should concern yourself with.’

‘Or rather not something I should have asked about. My apologies,’ said Munakata without looking at Fushimi. ‘Did you once think that scarring your Homra insignia would destroy the power bestowed on you by the Red King?’

That wasn’t exactly the case, but similar ideas did cross Fushimi’s mind during his Installation Ceremony. When he first laid hands on Subaru, his sabre, he had felt it almost a certainty that the Blue power would overwrite the Red one. But it didn’t; even though the flamelike insignia had been burnt off and scarred over, the power of the Red King remained undiminished.

‘So what?’

‘You have turned your back on the Red Clan, but in a sense you are still part of them if not as much as you once were. The Red Clan belongs to your past, and the past always leaves a trace.’

‘…I don’t see anything left apart from this ugly mark.’

‘You would not have scarred the mark if it had meant absolutely nothing to you,’ said Munakata simply, turning to face Fushimi again as though acknowledging he had overstayed his visit. ‘Hopefully I will see you after you have made a full recovery?’

‘… If you drop by the Information Room.’

‘Excuse me.’

A message alert came from Munakata’s person. Fushimi watched Munakata take out his PDA from his breast pocket.

‘You are way too busy to be visiting sick people in their rooms, _sir_.’

‘Indeed. This is a message from Mr Enomoto. Apparently he has been looking everywhere for me. I will see you later, Fushimi. Get well soon.’

 

 

 

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	4. A Matter of Opinion

 

_‘It is not he who gains the exact point in dispute_

_who scores most in controversy -_

_but he who has shown the better temper’_

_(Samuel Butler)_

 

The first snow of the year fell on a certain morning in late January. DOMYOJI Andy, newly appointed commander of the fourth squad of the Swords & Combat Division, strode down the corridor outside his dorm room, collar half undone and hair sticking up at the back of his head, brandishing his sheathed sabre like a baton.

‘Attention, Swords Four!’

Two adjacent doors burst open. Four men sprinted out in almost a tumble, clicking their heels together as they skidded to a halt rather zigzaggedly. One of them barely stifled a cry as his right foot got stamped on.

‘Sir!’

‘Yes sir!’

Domyoji looked at the men’s faces; the men looked back, gaping. For a fleeting moment all five stood speechless and motionless. Then Domyoji buckled, laughing so hard he was holding onto his sabre like a street pillar.

‘Hey, this is _not_ funny!’

‘Did you just use the emergency drill to trick us, sir?!’

Domyoji straightened up, taking in the indignant look on the men’s faces. Enomoto, Fuse, Goto, Hidaka; they were members of Swords Four, and Domyoji had been to countless trainings with them, seeing them more like friends than colleagues, and least of all subordinates. It was plain weird to have them stand to attention at his command.

‘Don’t call me “sir”, guys. _Please_.’

‘Okay. D-did you just use the emergency drill to trick us, Mr Domyoji?’ Hidaka repeated his question, although he didn’t seem particularly interested in getting an answer, judging by the way he hopped on his left foot clutching his right, gasping.

Domyoji took the moment to fasten his sabre to his waistband so he could avoid meeting Hidaka’s eyes and succumbing to another laughing fit, ‘I just fancied being a boss for a change, is all. You weren’t doing something that can’t be interrupted, were you?’

‘Well, I was assembling a new circuit - ’ began Enomoto with a serious face, but was cut off by a whack on the head from Fuse, ‘So what’s the plan for today, boss? Same old training?’

‘Yeh, well, what else is there to do? There’s been no crime to investigate this side of the New Year. I suppose people are just winding down a bit and enjoying the snow.’

The five of them gathered at the balcony that stretched the entire length of the corridor. Snow had gathered on the ground and over the dark railings that constituted the front gate of the headquarter. Domyoji stifled a yawn. ‘Can’t believe there’s no one out there having a snowball fight. It’s a form of seasonal training, you know. And character building.’

‘And camaraderie boosting.’

‘And freezing cold.’

‘And chicken nuggets and a side of chips. Do you think Lieutenant Awashima will do an outdoor training today?’

Domyoji ran a hand absent-mindedly through his hair, flattening the strands that stood up at the back of his head along the way, ‘Nah, she’s an all-training-and-no-fun type of person. And she’d go berserk if you go all let’s-ditch-our-swords-and-have-a-good-old-tussle-ly. I guess we’ll have to pretend it’s just another ordinary day of sword fight inside.’

They were heading toward the stairs that stood at the end of the corridor. The floor they lived on was not as populated as the other floors; there were only five rooms, and Domyoji rarely came to this side as his room was down the opposite end. But they had spent a few minutes looking at the snow and realised the view at this end was much better. Room Five, the last room on this floor, stood a little further to the back and was almost hidden by a small side passage, which was fronted with a stretch of long narrow windowpanes that stood from floor to ceiling. Domyoji’s feet were on the stairs when he saw it. 

‘Look at that!’

He was pointing at the windows. The men behind him froze; Enomoto prodded him, sounding oddly fearful, ’You are not supposed to do _that_!’

‘What, look at windows? We’ve been doing it all the way right from our end, haven’t we?’ Domyoji ran down the side passage, excited by the view. ‘Come quick! You could see the outside training field from here! This up-and-down-and-zero-blocking balcony is some piece of art! Why don’t we have it along the entire corridor? Whoever lives in Room Five must have the best view of the entire dorm!’

He turned towards the four, beaming. They scowled at him, casting apprehensive sidelong glances at the door to Room Five which was just a few yards from where they were standing. The door was slightly ajar. Fuse was the first to act as he ran down the side passage and pulled Domyoji back.

‘Hey!’

Fuse shushed him, ‘Are you telling me you’ve no idea who lives here?’

Domyoji looked at the door. It had number 5 on it, but the name plate was empty. ‘I thought nobody did?’

Enomoto threw him a disbelieving look, ‘How come someone so thick became top of Swords Four? Whoever lives here has the room plus this outside passage all to himself, so you don’t want to be seen wandering around here.’

They began to make their way downstairs, flanking Domyoji on both sides so he couldn’t get away and venture back into forbidden territory. 

‘Okay, okay, I get it now. It’s not like I don’t know who lives there. Some newbie working with your div, is it?’ Domyoji addressed Enomoto, causing the later to start violently. 

‘My div? You mean Intelligence? I haven’t been with them for quite a while now. I thought you knew, being the boss.’

Domyoji stared, ‘You haven’t? But you are good with computers!’

Enomoto wanted to say something more, but Hidaka forestalled him, ‘Let’s not talk about computers. We are Swords Four, so we are the sporty type.’

‘Yeh, I know _that_ , but I was just saying Enomoto is good with computers. Plus as far as I know Intel is just a bunch of computer people working independently and they all have the right to issue reports or talk directly to the Captain. But they need a top guy, not in the I’m-here-to-boss-you-all-so-get-your-thing-done-before-I-bite way. More like the if-you-have-a-bunch-of-baby-chickens-you-also-need-a-mother-hen way. That sort of thing,’ Domyoji rattled on, ignoring Enomoto’s screwed-up expression but talking to him regardless. ‘And I thought you were the hen of their div?’

Enomoto blushed scarlet as the others sniggered, ‘I’m - I’m not mothering them! And neither is Fushimi, I’m pretty sure of that!’

‘Fushimi? I think I heard the name last year when some other Swords bloke talked about a kid acing a mission all by himself,’ Domyoji glanced back at the residential hall as they began making their way to the office building. ‘So Fushimi lives in Room Five? Anyone else?’

‘No one. Just him.’

Domyoji stared, ‘And he gets to have that secret passageway and all that view to himself? The Captain must _really_ like him or something. I’ve never heard of anyone having a single dorm room. Everyone shares.’

‘It’s not a single room. It’s got two bunks beds, upstairs and downstairs, just like ours. But Fushimi hasn’t got a roommate. I bet he’ll murder whoever dares to become his roommate, put the body through the mincer, and stuff it in a bag and put it in the freezer.’

‘Put it this way: if the dinner ladies serve dodgy-looking spagbol tonight, I’d know where the mince is sourced.’

‘Ewww!!’

 

  **†**

 

Fushimi sat hunched over his desk, staring at the laptop screen where the progress bar dragged on, long and unblinking, showing no sign of progress at all. 

This sucks. Everything sucks. Everyone sucks. Predominantly every effing bastard that ever inhabited this effing hell of a dorm. Earlier on, an alert from the main console at the Information Room had popped up with the message that some crucial piece of info was missing from the security system database, and Fushimi was the only one on site to have read it - not that he realised there were others there with him. Even if he did, he did not trust them enough to do anything other than switch the system to standby.

And now he had to retrieve whatever info that was missing from his own laptop, where he did the backup just in case. And the transmission wasn’t showing any sign of progress because he had disabled most of the intranet for security reasons. And a bunch of idiots just came by his door oohing and aahing at the damn cold weather and hadn’t been bothered to keep their damned voices down.

Fushimi was aware that he had been out of the Information Room too long. The Intelligence Division might try to contact him, or report him to Munakata for slacking off during work hours. He had been supposedly in charge of Intelligence for a couple of weeks now, but nothing changed. Everyone has full authority to personally report any issue to the Captain or the Lieutenant; this is just how Intelligence is structured at Scepter 4. A small, rather seclusive division that exists offstage but somehow holds everything together, being the information and computational backbone of the entire organisation where each member works on a piece of vertebra that, at the end of an indeterminable period, would somehow click together. Members at Intelligence were individuals, not some comrades-in-arms like people from Swords would proclaim. 

It didn’t take Fushimi long to figure this out. And having figured it out, he upheld his own interpretation as some sort of creed, and couldn’t help but wonder what Munakata was playing at when he appointed him head of the Intelligence Division. It makes no sense at all, having one person take charge of a cluster of individuals that happen to share the same office. The Intelligence Division is where hierarchy does not and should not apply. Fushimi had made a point to do whatever he needed to do and avoided talking to other Intel members, and they in turn did not talk to him unless absolutely necessary, nor greet him in a grovelling manner like some Swords underlings greeted their commanders. It was fences raised on both sides, and Fushimi couldn’t deny that he was feeling secretly relieved about it.

Fushimi waited till the voices outside his dorm died down, and got to his feet, which had gone slightly tingly as he was hunched in his chair resting his weight on them, ready to spring up and slam the door shut should someone dare to knock or peek in. The progress bar on the screen still stagnated; he unplugged the machine and closed the lid. Maybe the reception was better in the office building. 

He clutched the laptop to his side as he walked, bracing the wind that seemed to tear right through his uniform. There were footprints in the snow, tossed here and there, leading up to the office building. Fushimi traced them, and saw tiny, delicate bird tracks around a large patch where the snow lay untouched, surprised that there were birds out here in such cold weather. Someone with some kind of bird for a nickname had the same habit of being hyperactive in winter; someone Fushimi knew very well from a not so distant past. The memory was tinged, and as the colour began to sink in, Fushimi stomped it down. 

At least it wasn’t raining anymore. Snow had drained the air of moisture, to the point that someone had switched on the central humidifier in the office. As he pushed the door open, Fushimi’s glasses fogged over and blinded him. Clicking his tongue, he took them off and wiped the lenses with his handkerchief.

There was a training room on the ground floor. Fushimi could see where the footprints led, bits of snow melting into sludge as the track disappeared off one side of the staircase where the training room must be. Not that he had been there, or ever wanted to. Fushimi wiped the soles of his boots on the entrance mat before going up the staircase.

There was a notice board on the wall outside the Information Room. On this particular morning a note was pinned up, listing the names of those who were yet to get their flu shot. Fushimi walked past pretending not to have seen. He was one of the first few who were called for their flu shot around Christmas last year, but the appointment had been delayed because he was still running a low grade fever and was on antibiotics for the wound over his scar. He didn’t recover until almost a full month later, and had since been trying to pretend his name was not underlined and highlighted twice on the list as it updated. It was stupid, really, dragging everyone in for a flu shot as if they were school kids.

The smell of freshly brewed coffee permeated the Information Room; there were people in the lounge, chatting. Fushimi went to his corner without looking at them, guessing they were Intelligence members and not bothering to say hello. The voices became hushed as he sat down, then resumed. They must have seen him, and were expecting him to at least greet them like a normal, sensible grownup. 

Fushimi bent over to plug in his laptop. He had to somehow feed the bits of missing info to the main console, wire or wireless. What his colleagues made of him was an irrelevance, and he shoved them to the background as he switched on the console.

The ‘info’ turned out to be the report section in the database. Reports of all sorts and categories: training, registry, criminal investigation, general archive, everything compressed and bundled into one single package that took an insane amount of space on his hard drive. Fushimi wasn’t surprised that the transmission back in his dorm didn’t go well. He sank into his chair and watched as the wired connection began to pick up speed, copying the package to the console at a slow but steady rate.

This damned whole thing needs upgrading, mostly the entire hardware platform; Fushimi thought wearily as he rubbed his temple. 

 

**†**

 

Domyoji threw another batted and slightly moist bamboo sword in the basket, ‘Anything else, gents?’

Fuse shook his head from across the room while Hidaka and Goto mopped the wooden floor with gusto. No thanks to Domyoji’s sudden burst of passion for community service, Swords Four had to stay for post-training cleanup. Of course it was all fun and invigorating if you didn’t mind mopping down the floor a dozen times, vacuuming the heck out of the entrance mat, picking up odd items like pieces of wrist or elbow protector from odd places like the nook behind someone’s overstuffed locker, wiping down each of the sweat-soaked bamboo swords, and of course loading everyone’s outfit into the gigantic laundry trolley.

‘Where’s Enomoto?’

Domyoji smeared the sweat from his chin, ‘Off delivering laundry, I guess.’

‘Slacking bastard.’

‘Hey, Domyoji,’ called Hidaka behind the row of lockers. ‘You do know that as our boss you have to sign the session sheet, don’t you?’

‘Nope, but easy peasy by the sound of it. Just signing, you mean?’

‘Nope, with the session sheet you have to confirm attendance, check all the equipment, report missing or broken stuff, among many other things.’

‘You’ve never seen a session sheet, boss?’

Domyoji could feel himself breaking into a sweat again, only not from the exertion of gathering bamboo swords, ‘You have? What’s it like?’

Fuse grinned, ‘pages and pages long. You will _love_ it.’

‘You know what,’ said Domyoji loudly, ‘I’m - I’m a fairly hands-on person. I prefer actions to words. I’ve never done this post-training report thingy before, and I guess since I’m _the boss_ I get to choose who does it for me. Enomoto is good with computers, so he should be good with reports that come in one package. So there. Sorted.’

‘You can’t just shove tasks down people’s throats just because they are not present to say no, _boss_.’

‘Ditto. It’s called workplace harassment, _boss_.’

‘Be a man and face the firing squad, _boss_. You’ve done case reports for missions or field investigations and this is not much different.’

When Domyoji got a copy of the session report from the Records Office, he kept his face blank and remained so until Hidaka grabbed the report from his hands.

‘Hey, give it back!’

Enomoto leant in and read the report, somehow having found a shortcut and returned from the laundry quicker than expected. ‘Bad news, Domyoji. They’ve released the new edition and added some extra sections.’

‘What do you mean, extra sections?’

‘Well you know, basically more things for you to report on,’ said Enomoto, keeping a straight face so as not to crush Domyoji like the others had done. ‘When I did it last year there wasn’t this Self-Evaluation of Aura Control part, at least not so thorough. Sounds like this section has to be sent to Intel.’

Domyoji dropped the basket. The bamboo swords fell rolling everywhere over the newly scrubbed floor.

‘Evaluation of what - hang on, is that an individual thing? Do I have to ask everyone who came to the training to do it?’

‘Yeh, sounds so. You know we do swordsmanship and kendo training separately, but with kendo we also have to learn how to channel the Blue power. Intel needs the data anyway,’ Enomoto added with deliberation. ‘I sorted the Blue power measurement database when I was with Intel. You have to get the calculations just right, and if you ticked the wrong option on the questionnaire you’d mess up everything and Intel would bay for your blood.’

 

Domyoji skipped lunch to work on his session report. The first few pages were easy, mostly containing generic yes-or-no questions that he could handle with relevant ease. But it kept going on and on and on, and kept getting more and more and more personal. It turned out that the largest part of the report was taken up by a survey on the self-evaluation of the subject’s Aura control, the subject being whichever poor sod that got picked out to do this report. 

Domyoji had hardly any trouble controlling his aura. He wouldn’t have made it to the commander of a squad if he had, given that he only joined Scepter 4 last year. It was the questions that unsettled him, question after endless question that threatened to demand an essay out of each answer. Domyoji thought about how he felt when he was wielding the bamboo sword and also the sabre; the aura had materialised like second instinct and was so smooth he found it difficult to channel it even half-consciously.

 **_Question_ ** _: How would you describe the formation of your beta-grade sanctum as specified in Sanctioned Swordsmanship Training Procedure XI?_

What procedure? Have we got that many procedures to go through? Domyoji threw an imploring glance at his sabre; it lay on his carpet like a sleeping infant. Domyoji tugged at his collar, rubbed the crown of his head, and swallowed the urge to bawl.

 **_Answer_ ** _: It’s like waking up in the morning when your body fancies a lie-in but your brain tells you NO YOU LAZY BUTT IT’S TIME TO GET UP AND FACE THE WORLD. Yeh that kind of thing, you get the idea. So it’s like that when you get the sabre out. You know it’s either do-it-and-yeah-we’ve-done-it-let’s-high-five, or oh-flip-this-isn’t-working-out-let’s-pack-up-and-go-home, so your aura just comes out and does what you want it to, just like you’d eat when you are hungry cos it’s no fun starving yourself._

Domyoji threw down the pencil and read it. It made perfect sense to him, but something was still lacking. He wasn’t sure how to word it; he felt compelled to sit down with whichever Intel person that was to assess the report and have a cup of tea with him, telling him how it felt to actually do the training and how it might be different in written form. Maybe he could mention the idea when he went to deliver the report. Honestly no one in his right mind would say no to a free cup of tea. Well, not if he’s a coffee person. Domyoji chewed on the end of his pencil, thought hard for a moment, then drew a picture beneath his answer with a thought bubble for postscript.

_P.S.: To the unknown Intel buddy - You know some people are words people and some people are picture people right? In case what I wrote doesn’t make as much sense to you as it does to me you’re more than welcome to use my Plan B aka this picture right here. :-) :-) :-)_

That’s better. Domyoji nodded at the picture, feeling slightly drunk on the sheer brilliancy of the idea. He then did the same to most of the descriptive questions, read the whole thing as if checking answers before handing in an exam paper, and ran off to the office building, whistling a little as he went.

 

**†**

 

The Information Room was deserted. Domyoji wasn’t surprised: it was still lunch time, after all. But he couldn’t deny he was a bit disappointed. There was no reception desk here, so he couldn’t just leave his report at a certain spot. He walked past the lounge and ventured down the work area. 

 _So this is the one and only Intelligence Division_. To Domyoji, the reputation of this place preceded it, and he wouldn’t even half think about sneaking in if there had been someone on duty here. He looked this way and that, admiring the consoles. They are just like what you  see in games where you face the final boss at his lair in the climatic scene, where he controls everything from one giant console and seeks to destroy mankind and you have to stop him right there. 

And there was just the same giant console at the back of the room! Domyoji stared open-mouthed at the holograph, blinking bright blue and scattering irradiant strands of light across the floor, the ceiling, and every inch of air in between. Domyoji stared transfixed at a circular window floating at eye level; it showed a navy blue progress bar halfway till completion. The icons around looked like coloured sugar crystals on a biscuit. He stretched out a hand - 

‘Stop it.’

Domyoji almost jumped out of his skin, ‘Who - who’s there?!’

There was movement behind the holograph. Domyoji squinted hard, and saw someone standing up from what could only be a chair behind the panel. The person pressed something on the sloped screen; there was a clear beeping sound, and the holograph disappeared. Domyoji blinked, trying to dispel the afterimage from the lights, and found himself looking at a bespectacled young man, frowning slightly and with mouth held slightly askew.

‘You - I didn’t see you. S-Sorry,’ Domyoji smiled apologetically. The young man looked annoyed, but not furious, and certainly not threatening. He seemed to be Domyoji’s age, or younger. Domyoji took a step forward, was treated to a wary and slightly hostile look, and was undeterred.

‘Hi, you are one of Intel, aren’t you? I’m Domyoji, head of Swords Four,’ he grinned.

‘Fushimi,’ the young man eyed him for a moment and said tersely, not smiling. 

 _So this is Fushimi, huh._ Something about him caused Domyoji’s mood to crumble a bit, but he held on to what was left, and held out what was meant to be delivered, ‘I’m here to hand in the session report from the morning training. With kendo, mind you. Are you going to go through it?’ 

He wanted to talk about something else, maybe about how his friends from Swords Four mentioned Fushimi and his room like it was some kind of secret base, but gave up as Fushimi was clearly not the chatty type. Domyoji watched Fushimi take the report from him without a word and gave it a quick a browse, removing loose pages that Domyoji recognised were on equipment-checking and general fill-up, ‘Just this part,’ he said with a slight nod at what was left in his hand - the survey on the aura control part. 

Domyoji gathered the loose pages and stacked them on the panel surface, ‘so these go to the Records Office?’

Fushimi threw him a look, ‘You don’t know where to submit these?’

Something in Domyoji’s brain flared up at the degrading tone, but he fought it down before he could lash back. _What is it with this fellow? Does he pride himself on going about offending everyone just because he gets to have a dorm room all to himself?_

‘’Course I do!’ his voice came out harsher than he intended. Christ, this isn’t going down well. Domyoji studied Fushimi’s face for a moment, taking in the brooding anger that clashed rather oddly with his otherwise refined features, ‘I’m actually just about to go there. So long, then.’

He began to make his way to the door, irritated for no particular reason. Damn, he needed his Swords Four friends to cheer him up. They might still be at lunch. If he was quick enough he might be able to catch them and ask them to go for a walk with him before - 

‘Stay where you are, Mr Domyoji.’

Domyoji stayed, his feet obeying the command before his brain could assess it. Again Fushimi’s curt voice clashed oddly with the honorific prefix to Domyoji’s name, erasing what little courtesy there might be and spewing a rather concentrated dose of sarcasm. Domyoji turned, ‘What?’

The look on Fushimi’s face was no less scathing, ‘Did you even read what you wrote in the report?’

Domyoji took a few strides and was back at the console within seconds, ‘Got a problem?’ the truth was that he was feeling downright indignant now, not to mention a little incredulous. _How come he’s finished reading my report before I even left the room?_

Fushimi leafed through the report until he was at a certain page, ‘What do you think this is, an picture book for three-year-olds? Have you any idea what a report is _supposed_ to be like?’

Domyoji took a quick glance at the page. It bore one of his many pictures and he wasn’t concerned with exactly which, ‘I beg your pardon? I _do_ have experience in writing reports and what I wrote makes perfect sense to me.’

‘ _To you,_ ’ Fushimi stressed. ‘Maybe it does to you, but it’s absolute crap to me and to the rest of this div.’

‘Just who do you think you are talking to?’ Domyoji slammed both hands on the panel. It was so unlike him to get riled up this easily; he didn’t want it to happen but he couldn’t just back off now. Damn it, everyone’s got their limits and dignities. ‘You may be the person to assess this report, but it doesn’t mean no one else in this div gets to see it. Give it to someone else if you can’t be bothered. And I tell you here and now I was dead serious when I did the report. I meant every word I put down, and every picture for that matter.’

‘Your writing disproves it.’

‘Oh, does it? That’s a matter of opinion, though. What makes sense to one person may be total Greek to another. We can wait here till some other Intel fellow comes back and ask him to read it and see what he thinks.’

They glowered at each other, Domyoji for the sake of his dangling dignities, and Fushimi for the sake of letting out his pent-up frustration. Neither attacked again. 

‘I guess you are just too much of a moron to rewrite the whole thing, then,’ said Fushimi, taking the report and shifting to the side to switch on the scanner. ‘It’ll be put on record.’ His voice was still cold, but the anger was gone.

‘So be it! It’s not like I did something horrible. Plus I don’t think it’s that bad so what you say doesn’t scare me.’

Fushimi harrumphed.


	5. Operation Squeeze Oranges

_‘Nothing great is created suddenly,_

_Any more than a bunch of grapes, or a fig._

_If you desire a fig_

_I would tell you that there must be time._

_Let it first blossom, then bear fruit_

_And finally ripen.’_

_(Epictetus, 55 AC - 135 AC)_

 

 

The backup for Scepter 4’s system data took an incredibly long time to complete. Fushimi had forgotten why he ended up investing so much effort in what had started as a mere whim on Enomoto’s part; no one - not even the rest of the Intelligence Division - seemed remotely aware there was a full-scale and very much covert system upgrade project going on, because Fushimi had reserved just the right amount of bandwidth to support the net traffic of the entire organisation. 

It seemed ages ago when the easy part - the backup phase - was done, and the start of the actual upgrade was when the real horror began. As days slipped into weeks, Fushimi grew tired of staring and inwardly swearing at the progress monitor window on the console screen. The process was apparently halfway till completion - seemingly identical to the backup bar from weeks ago when a certain idiot from Swords blundered in with a kids’ story book for a report - had been for weeks, which meant it was now permanently stuck. After trying what he could and failing to get the thing going, Fushimi realised with a touch of reluctance that his original plan was not working out and that it was time for Plan B. He was not doing this thing for Scepter 4; it was _his_ project, and any stumbling block was a personal insult to him.

The chance came one late Thursday afternoon. The next day would be a public holiday, and starting from the previous Sunday there had been excited whispers from the dorm to the cafeteria and to the office. Apparently there would be some sort of ceremony held in the honour of some important busybody, so everyone was required to attend. To Fushimi, it meant only one thing: no traffic over the intranet for a few precious hours.

The clock had struck five. Fushimi pushed himself from the console till the back of his chair grazed the window ledge, and watched the half dozen Intel members take their leave. Although Fushimi hardly talked to them, he had grown used to having them around after months of sharing the same office, and they in turn had ceased to whisper together when he passed by. The initial rancour had simply dissolved into some kind of peaceful mutual disregard. 

The last of the Intel members turned around at the entrance, saw Fushimi, seemed to hesitate for a brief moment, then left without shutting the door. They might come back later just to get a coffee. Realising this, Fushimi got to his feet, crossed the room and bolted the door. For a second or two the room was plunged into darkness; then, sensing someone was still here, the lights came on again. Fushimi returned to the console. For Plan B, he would have to use all the computers in the whole div.

Fushimi turned on the terminal and typed a string of hotkeys. A new window popped up, showing a real-time map of Scepter 4’s entire intranet; it blinked and overlapped with another window that showed a topographical chart of the Scepter 4 Headquarter. The two windows merged together, creating a combined map that displayed all the branches and sections with their own subnet information: the cafeteria and all individual dorm rooms within the residential hall, the two offices under General Affairs Division, the four squads under the Swords & Combat Division, Information Room, and the Captain’s Quarters. 

Fushimi was not surprised to find out that the General Affairs Division had the most complicated subnet. The entire div was an enormous database; Fushimi learnt it the hard way, having completed system backup all by himself. The residential hall subnet was the second largest; this was understandable too, seeing there were hundreds of employees living there and each had at least two to three devices. The Information Room came third; no surprise either. The Swords & Combat Division subnet was a good several degrees smaller but rather compact; normal as well, since they were constantly on data exchange with the Intelligence Division. 

The Captain’s Quarters ought to come last. Fushimi didn’t remember seeing a computer in Munakata’s office, and understood that one person couldn’t possibly match an entire division when it comes to data usage. Munakata could be a closet video gamer or whatever he was for all Fushimi cared, but unless he was running a research centre under his writing desk, his quota should be quite negligible.  

Except that it wasn’t. The subnet allocated to the Captain’s Quarters showed the same usage pattern as all the rooms in the residential hall put together. Amazed, Fushimi brought up a graph that analysed the stream of data going in and out of Munakata’s network. It spiked and dropped several times since the beginning of January, looking rather like the cardiogram of someone who had run a full marathon and was close to passing out. It was bizarre, to say the least.

Fushimi’s intention had been to check potential deficiencies within the intranet. He had been thinking about the whole thing, turning it over in his mind this way and that until no possibility was left untouched, and the only feasible explanation was that there must be some kind of a loophole on the network level. The unusual subnet activity from the Captain’s Quarters seemed to prove it. 

_Something_ was inhibiting Scepter 4’s network. Infiltrating, even. And nobody seemed to have the faintest clue.

 

**†**

 

 AKIYAMA Himori leant forward, adjusting the full-length mirror until it stood against the wall in a perfect seventy-degree tilt, then brought himself to his full height and checked himself in it. Everything appeared to be fine. He stepped back a little and patted flat his freshly starched collar.

‘Akiyama, commander of Swords One. On the job.’

His voice sounded hollow and slightly watery in the misty bathroom. Akiyama became conscious of talking to oneself when nobody was around, and, feeling the urge to do something sensible, picked up the mirror before fog could settle and coat the surface. Whoever kept the humidifier at full blast must be a toad at heart, or a salamander; only amphibians could survive such humidity because they had to use their skin to absorb the water they need from their surroundings.

However, Akiyama was too level-headed to voice his complaints. Moisture in the air kept the flu virus away; it served a purpose and therefore must be allowed a place. Simple as that. With the mirror under one arm, Akiyama turned to leave, almost running into a figure that was coming in at an ambling pace.

‘Hey, watch where you’re going!’

‘Sorry - !’

It was Benzai, Akiyama’s roommate and friend. Like Akiyama, he was dressed in starched uniform and more polished up than usual.

‘Ready?’

‘Yes.’

Benzai eyed the mirror under Akiyama’s arm, ‘Do you need to take it back to the dorm?’

‘Afraid so.’

‘Well, I’ll go with you then,’ Benzai checked his watch. ‘Better be quick. We don’t want to be late for the ceremony.’

Akiyama answered with a nod, and the two of them began making their way toward the staircase. Their uniform rustled and their boots tapped the floor in a steady rhythm. 

‘Why don’t you use the bathroom mirror, the one above the sinks?’

‘It’s all misted over. Plus I can’t see my feet properly.’

‘Why the fuss of carrying our mirror to the bathroom, then?’

 Akiyama thought for a moment; why indeed?

‘I guess it’s just habit,’ he glanced sideways, catching Benzai’s eye. ‘Remember how we used to carry our own things when we were with Defence?’

‘You mean when we were still training in the cadet force. Yes, that was part of the infantry drill,’ Benzai smiled a little. ‘But we’ve been in Scepter 4 for quite a while now. Things have changed.’

They reached the foot of the staircase. Out of habit, Akiyama paused to let Benzai go first. 

‘Some things did change. Some haven’t,’ Akiyama spoke to Benzai’s back as he followed suit. 

Benzai turned his head. ‘From army to police. I’d say it’s quite a - ouch!’

There was a loud bump. Akiyama’s feet slid on the stairs as Benzai tumbled and fell against him; Akiyama’s long-honed reflex saved them both as he grabbed hold of the banister out of sheer instinct. His other hand slackened for a moment, and gripped the mirror at the edge before it could fall crashing to the floor.

‘What the - ’ 

Benzai flung his arms about, somehow salvaging his balance and managing to avoid stepping on Akiyama’s feet. One stair above them, another person also caught himself mid-swearing as he bent over to pick up his PDA, which had fallen to the floor when he and Benzai bumped into one another.

Akiyama tried to steer Benzai out of the way but ended up shoving him. When the other person straightened up, Akiyama found himself looking into Fushimi’s slightly astonished face and suddenly realised it had been ages since he last saw him. The ceremony along with its frantic lead-ups apparently eluded Fushimi; he was in his school-boyish clothes again and seemed to have just torn himself out of bed, judging by the way his hair fell around his face with a few tufts poking out over his fringe. He looked younger than ever.

Fushimi seemed to take the moment to have a good look at Akiyama and Benzai as well. And having recognised them, the wide-eyed astonishment on his face was replaced by the usual sullen apathy.

‘Sorry,’ began Benzai tepidly. ‘Didn’t look where I was going.’

Fushimi’s blue eyes shifted toward where Benzai was standing, off one side and one stair above Akiyama.

‘Whatever.’

He slid his PDA into his pocket and began walking downstairs. Benzai moved to make way, blocking Akiyama. Akiyama turned and caught a glimpse of Fushimi’s narrow back.

‘Aren’t you going to the ceremony, Fushimi?’

Fushimi paused, but did not look in Akiyama’s direction. ‘Why would I?’

Akiyama heard Benzai’s suppressed intake of breath, and decided to make an effort, ‘All Scepter 4 members are required to attend. I thought you knew.’

Now Fushimi was looking at him, sounding defiant, ‘I haven’t got time.’

Akiyama felt the need for a second appeal, but Fushimi had turned and left. Benzai let out a laugh, ‘He’s such a teenager.’

‘He’s just acting like one. A colleague is a colleague regardless of age, Benzai.’

‘No way. You and I have been grownups for too long, we simply don’t get how kids’ minds work any more,’ Benzai laid a hand on Akiyama’s back. Akiyama felt himself being pushed upstairs, away from where Fushimi had just disappeared. 

‘Just let it go, Akiyama. Leave it to the Captain.’

 

Fushimi didn’t give a damn about ceremonies, and found Akiyama’s sort laughable. He had had a late night using up all the network resources to troubleshoot, and was now on his way to the Information Room where he hoped to get some tangible result after having left the program running all night. If his suspicions were correct, he would need Munakata’s permission on what he was to do next.

Orange Electronics, the largest and most powerful corporation with headquarters based in Nanakamado. Orange owned pretty much every computer and PDA model that was ever sold on the market; even devices produced by smaller companies used Orange’s software, chips and implants. Orange also served as the dominant network provider across the nation. Scepter 4’s intranet was built on a branch of its business commercial platform, which was also used by the government and its constituent organisations that dealt with matters concerning national security. 

Fushimi had never before thought about the platform. He had run tests, but he had designed those tests in the knowledge that Scepter 4’s intranet was a stand-alone network that he had full access rights to. Last night Fushimi had lain in bed thinking, unable to sleep; all of his preliminary tests were pointing in the same direction: the intranet itself was as sound as it could be; if there was anything wrong with it, it had to be at a deeper level. Fushimi then searched the database using his PDA, and found a copy of the contract between Scepter 4 and Orange Electronics, signed a year ago, listing all the configuration details. If the overnight test gave the result he had been expecting, Fushimi would need to contact Orange Electronics in Nanakamado.

There was no one in the Information Room. Fushimi went quickly to the main console and swiped his PDA. The unlocked holograph sprang into life. The test result was front and centre, being the last process to finish running during the machine’s night vigil. Fushimi adjusted the brightness and scanned the words quickly.

It was just as he had thought. The fault lay with Orange. There was a defect in their commercial network platform. _Someone_ , or _something_ , was tampering with Orange’s network infrastructure, and Scepter 4, being a client, was affected.

 

**†**

 

Fushimi stood at the balcony outside his dorm room and looked down at the outdoor training field. The ceremony was finished; people were leaving, most of them streaming back to the residential hall in a mass of blue and white. Fushimi glanced toward the side of the field that led to the office building, and found the person he was looking for. Munakata was walking with his hands clasped behind his back, and Awashima was by his side, talking. 

The sound of footsteps coming up the stairs seemed to shake the floor. Fushimi clicked his tongue, and after a moment of disdainful hesitation decided to brace himself. Again he stuck out, being the only person going downstairs and not wearing his uniform; people saw him, and did not bother to lower their voices as they made way only reluctantly.

‘Isn’t that the kid from the Red Clan?’

‘The Captain obviously likes him enough to tolerate his absence from gatherings like this!’

‘Wonder what he’s up to now?’

Fushimi let the voices pass and kept his face blank, but his heart was thumping painfully in the vicinity of his throat as his muscles tensed with adrenaline. He caught sight of Enomoto with his gang, of Akiyama, and of a few Intel members who returned slightly nervous looks mingled with surprise. When the trail was over and he found himself on empty ground, Fushimi broke into a run, and didn’t stop until he was at the Captain’s Office door, where he leant against the wall and waited till his breathing eased.

The door was pushed open from the inside. Fushimi tensed, and found himself face to face with an equally startled Awashima. 

‘ - Fushimi!?’

‘I need to see the Captain.’

Awashima gave him a once-over with narrowed eyes, ‘You were absent this morning. May I hear the excuse?’

Fushimi clicked his tongue. He couldn’t pull it off with the Lieutenant. ‘It’s work. I need to talk to people from Orange Electronics in Nanakamado.’

Awashima looked taken aback. Fushimi could tell his mention of Nanakamado had thrown her off; he sidled past her with a murmur of apology. 

‘That was not very tactful, Fushimi.’

The voice came from the side. Fushimi glanced at the tatami mat, and found Munakata there. The room was cooler than the rest of the building, and smelt of green tea.

‘You heard, sir?’

‘Yes, I suppose I did. The door is not closed.’

Awashima reappeared, ‘I will see you after this, Fushimi. Excuse me, sir.’

Fushimi saw Munakata nod, and heard the door shut behind him. 

‘Would you like to join me, Fushimi?’

Fushimi eyed the steaming teapot and the upright, almost ritualistic way Munakata sat next to it, looking so prim and proper he could pass as someone who recently came out of finishing school.

‘Tsk. No, thanks.’ 

‘So, what is it about Orange Electronics?’

Despite his faults, Munakata had a certain way of dispensing with formalities and getting right to the point. Fushimi gave a quick recap of what he had been doing over the past few weeks and what needed to be done next.

‘My guess is that someone’s been messing around with us via Orange Network, or that they’re tampering with Orange Network and we’re affected. Either way, I’ll have to talk to Orange’s technicians in Nanakamado,’ he concluded, studying Munakata’s profile. 

Munakata seemed to be thinking hard. Finally he turned and looked Fushimi in the eyes.

‘Have you talked to other Intelligence Division members?’

‘No. No one knows about this.’

‘Have you been to Nanakamado before?’

‘No, but I know the headquarter’s there. Not far from Mihashira Tower. ’

Munakata smiled a little, ’And I suppose you understand that Nanakamado, and especially Mihashira Tower, is the territory of the Gold King?’

Fushimi was stumped for a moment. He knew there were quite a few Kings and they all resided in different wards within Greater Tokyo; the Gold King may claim Nanakamado as his territory, but Fushimi didn’t see how that would relate to him going there.

‘It’s not like I’m going to attack the Gold Clan or anything.’

‘No, it is not,’ agreed Munakata appreciatively, and got to his feet. ‘Very well, then. I will call on His Excellency shortly. Thank you for telling me about your plans, Fushimi. As I said, you are free to act in any way you see appropriate. I will do what I can.’

‘Why are you - hang on, are you coming as well?’

Munakata took out his PDA, ‘In a sense, yes. A visit to His Excellency is due, anyway. I will stop by Mihashira Tower. It is only five minutes’ walk to Orange Electronics from there. Please go and change into your uniform. I will wait at the front gate.’

 

**†**

 

Fushimi found the whole situation oddly surreal. He had wanted to talk to Munakata with the intention of telling him what he was up to rather than consulting his opinion, and now Munakata was coming with him. Fushimi had no idea what Munakata’s meeting with the Gold King was about; he had thought it a mutual agreement that Kings avoided meeting each other as much as possible, but was not interested enough to ask Munakata if it really was the case. 

When Fushimi skidded to a halt by the front gate, dressed in his uniform and completely out of breath, Munakata appeared to have just finished his phone call and was putting his PDA back into his pocket. Seeing Fushimi, he smiled, more out of civility than anything else. Or so Fushimi thought.

‘His Excellency is expecting me in half an hour. I trust you do not need an appointment with the technicians at Orange Electronics?’

Fushimi gulped down large mouthfuls of dry, wintery air before straightening up. ‘No. J-Just go in and talk to their customer service and s-security people.’

A blue vehicle with the Scepter 4 emblem painted to the side was parked at the gate. The driver jumped out and saluted Munakata. Fushimi recognised the man’s hair, brushed back from the forehead and tied into a small knot at the back of his head.

‘Thank you for being my chauffeur on a public holiday, Kamo.’ 

‘It’s an honour, sir.’

Fushimi stood a little off to one side and watched the exchange of courtesy with mild boredom. Kamo noticed him, and the look on his face tightened. 

‘Fushimi is coming with me, Kamo.’

Kamo seemed less than satisfied with Munakata’s explanation. Before they got into the vehicle, he called Fushimi by his name. Fushimi clicked his tongue, ‘What?’

Kamo looked at him with a frown, ’Did you ask to go with the Captain?’

‘No,’ said Fushimi flatly, and slammed the door shut. He had a vision of the mass of Swords members whispering as he passed, and what they whispered was anything but pleasant; there were already rumours that Munakata treated him differently because he was Munakata’s _favourite_ , whatever that implied.

Kamo started the vehicle. Fushimi glanced sideways at Munakata, who was sitting with his eyes closed and his arms folded across his chest.

‘Can’t you drive, sir?’

Munakata didn’t open his eyes as he spoke, and his voice was slightly amused, ‘You ought to have told me earlier if you wanted me to drive, Fushimi.’

It wasn’t that; Fushimi wasn’t exactly sure why he felt rather strongly on the subject, but he did, especially when it concerned Munakata. However, with Kamo in the driver’s seat, Fushimi slumped back and rested his case.

They arrived at Mihashira Tower with a full ten minutes to spare. Munakata could wait it out and chat with Kamo till it was time to go in, but Fushimi wasn’t keen on keeping Munakata company. Neither was Kamo, though, by the looks of it. Kamo was leaning against the front of the vehicle, and appeared to fidget a little when Munakata turned to him with a smile that seemed to Fushimi to be genuine for the first time. Fushimi caught Kamo’s eye, saw the silent plea, and decided to let it all go.

‘I’m not sure how long it’ll take, so don’t bother to wait for me,’ he said, more to Kamo than to Munakata, annoyed that Kamo appeared to prefer his company to Munakata’s despite the fact that Kamo barely knew him.

Munakata turned, ‘Mr Kamo seems interested in your work, Fushimi. Would you mind if I divulged a bit of our earlier conversation?’

‘Not a bit. Do as you wish,’ Fushimi was already going through things he needed to discuss with the Orange technicians and was desperate to leave.

‘Good luck, then.’

‘See you, Fushimi.’

 

**†**

 

Fushimi did not get back to Scepter 4 Headquarter until close to midnight. He received a text from Munakata earlier with a short apology that they couldn’t wait for him, and hadn’t been bothered texting back. He could have taken the last tram from Nanakamado to Tsubakimon, but chose to walk instead as he was able to think better when on his own. 

He doubted the talk with Orange Electronics would have eventuated the way it did if he hadn’t shown them his work pass as a member of Scepter 4’s Intelligence Division. Orange’s customer service was useless; one syllable with them and Fushimi knew on the spot that he would have to get someone else. 

After his claim that there was a security defect in Orange’s commercial network finally got through to the company’s top analysts, Fushimi ended up meeting a few of them right in their office, only to be told that he must have messed up Scepter 4’s intranet on his own because Orange was flawless. Fushimi then showed them the result of his program, and was given a temporary admin account to work with while the analysts scrambled to do their own checkups. By that point Fushimi was already fed up with talking, so he went to an empty meeting room where he used the temporary admin account to access Orange’s server network, and ran the same tests he had used at Scepter 4’s Information Room.

With actual data, it didn’t take long to convince the dumbfounded Orange analysts that there were indeed defects in their commercial server. Fushimi saw he had achieved what he had meant to achieve and decided to leave, but was held back as the idiots from customer service showed up again and showered him with sickening apologies, promising they would fix the defects and offering a free upgrade to Scepter 4’s intranet and a free license renewal.  Fushimi refused both and demanded a permanent admin license to Orange’s non-commercial platform, as it was proven defect-free and had the most advanced security features that the non-commercial equivalent didn’t have. Although not happy about it, Orange was keen to compensate, and the deal was made.

Fushimi pushed open the front door to the residential hall, wiping snow off his hair. He was hungry, cold, and so tired he could just keel over and fall asleep on the entrance mat. The light in the cafeteria was on and laughter could be heard drifting out of the half-closed door. To Fushimi, the sign was clear: stay away from the place as far as humanly possible. Maybe he could get snacks from the vending machine in the Information Room later.

He dragged himself up the flight of stairs, thinking longingly of hot coffee and a steaming hot bath, when the sound of footsteps came thundering down the corridor.

‘Get back, Domyoji! Get the _hell_ back and get your grubby hands off my bottle!’

‘Like you’d catch me!’ 

Fushimi avoided being run over by flinging himself against the banister at the last minute. Domyoji came thundering down like a car veering off course, and didn’t come to a halt until he rammed headlong into the wall at the turn of the stairs. 

‘Buggery owwww!’

Domyoji gave a high-pitched screech and sank to his knees, clutching his forehead. His back was shaking.

‘Domyoji!’

Kamo was standing at the top of the stairs, looking in Domyoji’s direction. Then his eyes met Fushimi’s; he cleared his throat.

‘Oh, it’s you. Did you just get back?’

‘So what?’

Kamo shrugged with obvious embarrassment, ‘Sorry about Domyoji. I just caught him stealing alcohol from my cupboard.’

‘Whatever.’

‘Hey, Fushimi.’

Fushimi gripped the banister till his fingers grew numb, ‘What now?’

‘I heard from the Captain about what you’ve been doing - ’

‘I did too, but from Kamo!’ 

Domyoji was on his feet again, sporting a mass of bruise over his forehead that was turning puce at an alarming rate, ‘Sooo - been tackling Orange, have you? Did you know the Gold Clan owns Orange?’

Fushimi did not, and would not admit it, ‘What is it to you?’ he couldn’t figure out what Kamo and Domyoji were driving at; were they trying to get a rise out of him?

Domyoji swayed on the spot, sounding oddly slurred, ‘Welllll, I been thinking, it’s such a huuuuge mission, like, on a clan-to-clan scale, so we better go as a team hadn’ we? Swords an’ Intel, secret mission - knead an’ squeeze the heck out of them oreyge - oranggg- or- ’

He flopped to the floor, the bottle in his hand landing with a loud crash. Amber-coloured liquid gurgled out and pooled around him.

Kamo stomped past Fushimi, swearing profusely. Fushimi could smell the liquid: tangy, fruity, like good-quality wine. He watched Kamo hoist Domyoji over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

‘After you,’ Kamo gestured to Fushimi with his chin, looking grumpy. His slippers dipped in the liquid, knocking the broken glass to the side as he moved.

 

**†**

 

Fushimi pulled the scarf tighter around his neck as he left for the office building. It was well past midnight; he had showered (avoiding the bath when he found a partially-clothed Domyoji floating there in a coma) and changed, and was on his way to grabbing a quick snack from the vending machine in the Information Room. 

The lights in the room came on with a soft hiss. Fushimi made a beeline for the vending machine and bought a bag of chips, resisting the coffee as he did plan to go back and have a few hours’ sleep.

When he left, he saw the door to the Meeting Room was slightly open, and there were lights on. He hadn’t noticed it when he came in, nor heard hear any sound when he was in the Information Room. Who would be up at this hour in the Meeting Room? With a shock of realisation, Fushimi remembered what Awashima told him outside Munakata’s office after the ceremony. She had said she would see him afterwards, albeit without specifying when or where. And Fushimi had been so wrapped up in his work he had completely forgotten about it.

_But it can’t be …?_

He swallowed a mouthful of chips, and peeked around the half-open door.

It was Munakata, standing with his back to the door, facing the large, semi-curtained window on the opposite side of the room. It struck Fushimi that Munakata was wearing a midnight-blue dressing gown; he had never seen him in anything but his Captain’s uniform before.

So it wasn’t Awashima waiting for him in there. Fushimi turned to leave.

‘Is that you, Fushimi?’

‘Yes, sir.’

Fushimi thought maybe Munakata had heard him eating chips. No one could miss the crunching sound in the dead of night. He had no idea what Munakata wanted with him, and didn’t want to stay.

‘Please come in.’

Fushimi complied with a sigh. Munakata turned to face him, smiling his distant, courteous smile, looking almost reachable in his long dressing gown and slipper-like sandals, ‘It has been a long day for you.’

‘Yes, I suppose so.’

‘Do you always snack on chips, may one ask?’

_No, you may not._ Fushimi had not expected Munakata to comment on anything other than his meeting with the Orange technicians; what was the point of calling him in if it wasn’t for work, anyway?

‘Only when I fancy chips. I don’t live on it.’

‘Hmm, interesting.’

Fushimi studied Munakata’s profile for a moment, and wondered what he would say if he was offered chips by a subordinate. The man was a prig; he probably never tasted a morsel of junk food all his life.

‘Would you like some?’

Munakata looked at Fushimi, then at the proffered chip bag before sliding a hand in. Fushimi was taken aback; he had meant to needle Munakata but never expected him to actually take up the offer, at least not with such forthright sincerity.

‘Thank you, Fushimi.’ 

Fushimi suddenly wished the bag was empty already so he could leave. As it was not, he stood side by side with Munakata and chewed on his share.

‘What are you doing here on your own?’

‘What am I doing? Why, I thought you knew, Fushimi.’

‘I don’t.’

‘Before we left for Nanakamado this afternoon, you ran all the way from your room to the front gate. Did it tire you out?’

Fushimi was surprised that Munakata would bring this up, ‘How’s that relevant?’

Munakata smiled without looking at him, ’I suggest you use your Blue power next time. Personally, I find it rather handy when I need to be at a certain place within a certain time limit.’

The hint was helpful enough, except that Fushimi still didn’t see how it fit into what they had been talking about. Not knowing what to say, he resorted to looking out of the window like Munakata did. Then he felt Munakata shift a little.

‘If my guess was correct, you very rarely stand by a window and look at the sky, do you, Fushimi?’

Munakata was right. On the rare occasions Fushimi did stand by a window, he had been looking at his PDA screen, or lost in thought without looking at anything in particular.

‘So that’s what you’re doing, is it, checking out the sky while most people are in bed?’

‘Not quite.’

Fushimi clicked his tongue. 

‘What about you, then? I suppose you are here to see me.’

Fushimi, sensing the tinge of knowing in Munakata’s voice, felt a flicker of irritation, ‘Not necessarily, if all you do is look at skies and eat chips.’

‘Then I am all ears. How did the Orange Squeeze go?’

‘ _Orange Squeeze_?’

Munakata chuckled, ‘Apparently Mr Domyoji came up with the codename when Mr Kamo spread the news of what you were doing in Nanakamado. I cannot say that they are unimpressed.’

_The idiot_. 

‘It was touch and go for a while, but I’ve got it sorted. Those Orange people never seem to get it that there might be a flaw in their system. I guess having the Gold King as their patron ballooned out their ego a bit too much.’

‘The Gold King. Yes, I doubt His Excellency would be amused if anyone came in during our meeting, claiming that you were having a row with someone in charge of Orange Electronics. Did you know that a few members on the board of directors are Gold Clansmen?’

‘It means nothing to me or my plan.’

They looked at each other for an instant, Munakata smiling in an unfathomable manner. Fushimi had the strange feeling that Munakata was able to see through him and read the thoughts he could not or would not put into words. It always annoyed him, but strangely enough, it did not at this moment.

‘And what is the next step in your plan concerning our intranet?’

Fushimi stared at the pristine window ledge. He needed to think before answering this question, and found thinking difficult when keeping eye contact with Munakata. ‘I got Orange’s non-commercial license. Starting tomorrow, I’m switching Scepter 4’s intranet to the new platform. The security is a lot better, and I’ll have full access rights to everything.’

Munakata was silent for a while. 

‘You _will_ talk to the Intelligence Division about this, I hope? They have the right to know, as does every member of Scepter 4.’

‘If it comes to that, yes. I … I can’t avoid everyone forever.’

This was not what Fushimi really believed. His instincts told him he _would_ avoid as many people as possible and for as long as he could, but his common sense kicked in with a reproach that was way too objective to be his own; it had moulded his words against his will. Again he glanced at Munakata, looking into the dark amethyst eyes that caused his voice to trail off and his heart to stumble. Was it fear, or something else? He never feared the Blue King; what was it, then?

He watched Munakata, waiting for him to speak, to pronounce something concrete that was close to reassuring. 

‘Everything takes time,’ said Munakata, dipping his chin with an acknowledging smile. ‘You will be fine. Trust me.’

 

 

 


	6. A King's Path

 

_‘There is a tide in the affairs of men_

_Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune;_

_Omitted, all the voyage of their life_

_Is bound in shallows and in miseries._

_On such a full sea are we now afloat;_

_And we must take the current when it serves,_

_Or lose our ventures.’_

_(Shakespeare - ‘Julius Caesar’)_

 

 

MUNAKATA Reishi stepped into Mihashira Tower’s spacious hallway, the hem of his long uniform rippling. His gait betrayed no awe, cat-like and centred on the deep-crimson carpet that extended across the glistening floor. As he approached the end of the hall, two men in gold-trimmed indigo robes came up and bowed, their faces hidden behind masks shaped like the head of a rabbit.

‘This way, sire.’

The lift they entered was large and curiously iridescent; like the floor outside, it was constructed with the same kind of dark marble that seemed to emit tinges of gold on its own accord. Munakata’s mouth curved into a smile, indiscernible under the shifting lights. To him, the Gold King’s tastes in decor reeked of a past that was decadent and feudal, like an ink-stained page of a dusty tome that ought to be kept at the bottom of an archive.

They were now a good several floors up. The lift door slid open with a soft click. With the two Gold Clansmen bowing on both sides of him, Munakata set foot on the same glistening marble until he was faced with another double-panelled sliding door. 

‘If you would excuse us, sire.’

The two Gold Clansmen bowed again. A moment later, the door slid open for the second time. Munakata could see the tall, burly figure in the middle of the hall, with the two Clansmen at its side. He walked in.

‘His Majesty the Blue King, Munakata Reishi, Your Excellency,’ said one of the Clansmen.

The figure turned with a dismissive nod, and the Clansmen withdrew. For the third time since he became King, Munakata gazed into the face of the man who had the entire nation at his feet. Quite literally. This was KOKUJOJI Daikaku, the Gold King.

‘You knew this would eventuate, did you not, Munakata?’

Munakata offered the same soft smile he had had while in the lift, ‘I am afraid I did. As Your Excellency might be aware, Scepter 4 is still undergoing a process of gradual reconstruction. As director of the organisation*, I - ’

‘There is no need to recite your work schedule to me,’ Kokujoji cut in, voice heavy with old age yet brimming with authority, ‘especially when it is clear that you have not fulfilled your duty of calling upon the Prime Minister since he was sworn in. You do know that the parliament has the Tokyo Metropolitan Police under its command?’

Munakata dipped his chin in acknowledgement, ‘I am very much aware of that.’

‘And that you would have to first acquire permission from the Prime Minister, should you in any case enlist the assistance of the Metropolitan Police?’

‘Most certainly, Your Excellency.’

Kokujoji examined him critically, ‘Speaking of which, I have not heard of any incident with regard to the Red King as of late. Neither from you, nor from the Prime Minister.’

SUOH Mikoto. The Red King. Head of Homra. Munakata had had a few encounters with him the previous year. They were mostly unpleasant but at the same time strangely exhilarating, to the point that Munakata would abandon his usual cold, diplomatic manner and essay the same kind of violence that the Red King was infamous for. 

The second meeting between Munakata and Kokujoji was actually meant to prevent further occurrences of the same nature. However, Suoh was also present, sitting opposite with a cigarette poking from the corner of his mouth, a living if listless image of indifference bordering on sheer insolence. And Munakata simply did not believe that the Gold King’s preaching had roused him even the slightest.

Munakata hadn’t expected to hear Suoh’s name mentioned. But again, neither he nor Suoh had done anything that might redeem themselves in the Gold King’s opinion since their last brawl the previous year. Munakata suppressed a chuckle; the showdown between Suoh and himself hovered in the barely foreseeable future and at the very edge of a horizon that he, as the Blue King, was yet to tread.

‘Well?’ Kokujoji prompted, a little curtly.

Munakata became aware of his surroundings, ‘Your Excellency may rest assured that the duty of stopping the Red King lies with Scepter 4 under all circumstances.’

Kokujoji did not speak. With the intuition of a King, Munakata understood that this meeting was drawing to a close. He waited for the final verdict.

‘It would become a serious concern if you indulge in countering Suoh’s power with your own, Munakata. You understand perfectly what your power stands for, and Suoh’s, for that matter.’

‘As polar forces, yes,’ Munakata read the silent torment in the Gold King’s eyes, and that set an edge to his otherwise placid voice. ‘If there is anyone that truly indulges in violence, it is the Red King, not I. Good day, Your Excellency.’

Having anticipated a nod from the Gold King, Munakata turned on his heels, already deep in thought. The sound of his boots echoed softly in the hall as he walked towards the sliding door, where the Gold Clansmen appeared again, bowing him out.

 

  **†**

 

They drove past the Parliament House on their way back to the Scepter 4 Headquarters, and stopped at the nearby intersection when the light turned red. Although the temperature was close to freezing, it was a public holiday, and the amount of traffic was formidable. Kamo grew impatient, but with Munakata by his side, he only resorted to tapping his fingers on the steering wheel.

Munakata put the PDA back to his pocket, then cast a sidelong glance in Kamo’s direction. Kamo caught it, and felt the need to say something, ‘Still got other businesses to attend to, sir?’

Munakata answered Kamo’s smile with his own, albeit without the nervousness, ‘No. I was just sending a message to Mr Fushimi.’

‘Mr - Oh, okay. Sure.’

Kamo relapsed into silence again. Munakata sensed the awkwardness radiating off Kamo like heat off a burning fire, and guessed the reason clearly as if Kamo had spoken it word by word. To relieve his chauffeur, Munakata looked ahead, out of the windshield and away from Kamo. 

Unlike most people, Munakata was able to stay attuned to his surroundings when he was lost in thought. Since leaving Mihashira Tower, he had been thinking about the upcoming appointment with the new Prime Minister. Although truthful when talking to the Gold King, Munakata hadn’t been sincere; he would _not_ call on the Prime Minister simply because the Gold King wanted him to, and had not postponed the appointment on account of his work schedule. He would see to that at the most opportune moment only - namely, when the new Prime Minister needed Scepter 4’s assistance on behalf of his cabinet.

Unbeknownst to the Gold King, collaboration between the Tokyo Metropolitan Police and Scepter 4 was not yet sanctioned by the parliament. Shortly after he became King, Munakata had met with the equally newly-appointed police commissioner at the latter’s request. The metropolitan police at the time was besieged with what they called _unsolvables_ -  petty crime cases involving Strains that flatly defied the laws of physics and was a pain in the neck to them. The deal was straightforward: every time the metropolitan police got wind of a Strain-related case, it was passed straight to Scepter 4 for further investigation. Soon the roles were reversed; Scepter 4 began to take over most of the cases, and would pass those that turned out to be normal civil ones to the metropolitan police. Basically, Scepter 4 was to take charge of most cases _until proven Strain-irrelevant._ What started off as a mere favour on Scepter 4’s part soon evolved into a partnership that was based on efficiency and - as the commissioner was especially grateful for - mutual respect. 

Munakata had seen through the entire process, had known that it would inevitably pan out the way it did. It was just one of the many things he had an intuitive grasp of, like a move he was able to foresee before the start of the game. Out of habit, Munakata likened his work to the assembling of a jigsaw puzzle. What he had was a stack of loose pieces, with tiny grooves etched to their sides being the only clue as to where they led. To anyone it might seem a hopeless business, but to Munakata, the finished picture presented itself as an apparition beneath apparent debris. Each piece had its foretold place, and to its place it shall return, adding to the tendrils of connection during its odyssey. And Munakata, standing above, could see clearly the path it must traverse, because he had set it that way; he was the initiator, the orchestrator. 

It was the same with Scepter 4. Munakata saw its members more as his co-workers than his Clansmen, and knew with the same intuition where each of them - the individual pieces - fit on the puzzle board, and how. Except that with Scepter 4, he had to set about collecting his pieces first. They did not come in a labelled little packet. He was the one that put a label on each of them.

The path that laid out before him was crystal clear: granted, it had its crooks, turning this way and that, but they were an irrelevance in the boarder picture. The path stretched towards the horizon with a resoluteness that followed Munakata’s will, _was_ his will. And as he traversed, he paid little attention to those that might stand in his way, because he knew they would be out of the picture before he would even set foot near them. 

Yet there was one person that simply would not be out of it. Suoh Mikoto, the Red King, the beast of a man with flame-coloured hair that scorched Munakata’s eyes like the midday sun. Suoh stood for everything that Munakata stood against, and vice versa. Fire and ice. Sun and moon. An eclipse would take place when they had to connect, and when they did, they both tried to eclipse each other. To Munakata, Suoh stuck out like a boulder across his path, a thorn in the side, a jarring note that staggered a symphony, a piece that refused to click to a full jigsaw.  

‘We are almost there, sir.’

‘Yes, I can see that. Thank you, Kamo.’

The traffic was moving again. Munakata’s train of thought followed, and as it was uncharacteristic of him to dwell on one compartment, he vacated the one that housed Suoh and went ahead with deliberate nonchalance. 

Clearly he saw the path that led to his meeting with the new Prime Minister. It would eventuate, but not now, most certainly not on this public holiday when the weather was freezing and the traffic dismal. The vehicle stopped outside Scepter 4’s front gate. Munakata put a hand on his side of the door; it unlocked with a click.

‘Sir!’

‘I will entrust the parking to you, Kamo.’

Munakata’s feet sank slightly in the snow. It gave way at his weight, and presently came back crumbling over the top of his boots. Above, the sky churned, trapped behind thick, curdling fog. A mixture of hail and snow was falling; Munakata let it drizzle over him. It caught on his shoulders, the lapel of his coat, and melted through his cravat until his skin tingled with the cold moisture.

Behind him came a shuffling sound. Kamo sidled close, ‘Would that be all, sir?’

‘Yes, quite.’

Munakata began to walk away as Kamo saluted to his back. 

 

  **†**

 

Pushing open the door to the office building, Munakata allowed his Blue aura to permeate his whole frame. It repelled the snow that gathered over him as well as the humid air that threatened to fog up his glasses. 

‘I was looking everywhere for you, sir!’

The air hung like thick vapours of soup, but Awashima’s clear voice cut right through it. Through the faint blue aura that radiated from him, Munakata saw the source of the voice approach.

‘What is the matter, Ms Awashima?’

Awashima’s grey eyes grew wide, ‘You - have you been walking in the snow, sir?’

Munakata was aware that his attempt to use his aura to clear the snow had been less than half-hearted, and knew Awashima could discern that from his uniform, which was darker than usual with melted hail.

‘Yes, Ms Awashima. I must confess it was rather pleasant. And I _mean_ what I say.’

He flashed his most disarming smile at her, knowing deep down that she would neither buy into it nor dismiss it. Instead, she would gnaw at it, and it would gnaw at her, more’s the pity.

Awashima appeared flustered, ‘But it must be freezing cold!’ she repeated it to herself as Munakata wiped the soles of his boots on the entrance mat. 

‘May I ask why you have been looking for me, Ms Awashima?’

‘Certainly, sir. It is about young Fushimi, sir.’

Munakata began making his way to the Captain’s Office, ‘Mr Fushimi?’

‘Yes, sir,’ Awashima followed; she had resumed her usual cool, business-like air. ‘Fushimi was absent from the ceremony this morning. Do allow me to apologise on behalf of the Intelligence Division, sir.’ 

‘Apology accepted, although I have to say it was quite unnecessary,’ said Munakata softly. ‘Have you been looking for Mr Fushimi as well?’

‘Yes, sir. As you may be aware, I have requested that he see me after his meeting with you earlier. However, a Swords member informed me that Fushimi left the Headquarter with you.’

‘He did, yes. We had business to attend to in Nanakamado.’

‘But where is he _now_?’

They were at the Captain’s Office. Munakata held the door open, seeing Awashima was far from finishing her half-suppressed tirade. Awashima came in with a murmur of thanks, her eyes fixed on Munakata, who saw with fog-free clarity what awaited Fushimi on his return, and decided to clear the path for him.

‘Mr Fushimi is talking to technicians at Orange Electronics. I have authorised him to act freely, as his job is of great concern to Scepter 4, and requires the highest discretion.’

The words carried sufficient weight by themselves. Awashima’s frown lessened somewhat, before coming back with the need to carry one further point, ‘Be that as it may, sir, Fushimi is very young and still new to Scepter 4, and used to work for _the Red King_ ,’ her voice lowered delicately, as if what she was going to say next was against her better judgement. ‘And, sir, there are rumours amongst the older members of Swords & Combat Division about the way you run Scepter 4. Some people are openly critical of your choice in new members and especially Fushimi.’

Munakata looked Awashima squarely in the eye with a faint smile, ‘It is a foregone conclusion that those who disagree with me and my ways would have to leave.’

This did not appease her. She now looked worried, on edge; she lowered her eyes, ‘Yes, yes, I understand that perfectly. You have made that a certainty not long after you took charge of Scepter 4 last year, sir. And I saw to it. Now we are a much tidier and closer-knit organisation. Yet people still have disagreements, doubts even, on how things should be.’

Munakata knew his second-in-command too well to get fazed by her infrequent need for reassurance. He had not meant to make it so, but everyone in Scepter 4, right from Awashima down, seemed to harbour the belief that the Blue King was an unapproachable loner; news, therefore, could circulate among members till it became sagas and nobody would realise there might still be a possibility that it could reach their King in all its glossed-up falsehood. 

‘I am aware of that,’ he said gently without moving closer to her. ‘And I will make sure it would not tarnish your reputation, or hinder your work.’

Awashima raised her eyes again. Presently she seemed to collect herself, and let out a little sigh, ‘I hope you understand that it is not _my_ reputation that I am concerned about, sir. Things as they are could get lively from now on.’

‘Yes, I do. And yes, they certainly will, Ms Awashima. People who choose to live a mundane life will only end up languishing away.’

The corner of Awashima’s mouth twitched in an attempt to smile, ‘So, what about Fushimi? You certainly do not mind his unexplained absence from mandatory gatherings, do you, sir?’

‘No, Ms Awashima. I thought that was plain.’

Awashima sighed again, ‘It might lead to more rumours, I must say. But if you are certain about it, sir, I will of course forgive him.’

‘Thank you. And may I ask you for a favour?’

‘Anything, sir.’

Munakata paused slightly, ‘We are almost heading into March now. I think it is time we switched off the heaters and humidifiers in every building. Please take it as an _order_ for my sake.’

 

**†**

 

In short, Munakata found Fushimi _intriguing_. Right from the first time they met.

Which was in late August the previous year. As a then Red Clansman, Fushimi came to Scepter 4 Headquarters with KUSANAGI Izumo, Suoh’s strategist and second-in-command, to negotiate the detainment of the Minato twins. Of course, Fushimi barely spoke a word during the whole ordeal, except for the reluctant grumbles he gave when questioned whether he had any weapon on him. Munakata had watched Fushimi remove his knife belt that drew a gasp from the guards and even from Kusanagi himself. And he knew that wasn’t _all_ of it. 

Right before they went in, Munakata had caught Fushimi looking at him. It wasn’t like any other look he was prone to receiving. There was no admiration in it, nor fear, nor doubts mingled with hatred. It was pure and artless and very, very intense, as if he was trying to get behind Munakata’s smiling facade and catch something that wasn’t meant to be exposed. 

But for that look, Munakata would have dismissed Fushimi as he would any other street gangster moping about after their chief, which was how he had come to view most of Suoh’s underlings. By the time the business was nearly over, Munakata had made up his mind. Or rather, the idea had set since they locked eyes at the front gate, had been humming silently in the background during the course of the negotiation, and had now solidified into an agenda. Knowing Kusanagi, Munakata understood the futility of beating around bushes, so his signal had been as undisguised as it was verbal. He _wanted_ Fushimi. But what he said was less confronting; he _wished for_ someone that had concealed weapons on their person. 

And the person would become _his_ concealed weapon. The bower in the trump suit.

Munakata knew Fushimi would take the hint, would read into it better than even Kusanagi was able to. And of course, they would meet again after Munakata had gained the upper hand in the Minato twins case. They did. Munakata had issued the invitation, and Fushimi had come on his own, a Red Clansman, an underling of the Red King, but also a child with eyes that were able to perceive things far beyond his age. 

Admittedly, Fushimi could keep his hackles up for as long as his sense of insecurity prompted him, but deep down, Munakata knew he was still a child. Their second meeting confirmed it. Munakata asked Fushimi to join him in the assembling of a jigsaw puzzle, which was something he usually preferred doing alone. The fact that Fushimi still carried weapons escaped him the moment he noticed it, because he knew Fushimi would not attack as long as Munakata kept his distance. Fushimi’s means of defence was simple and clear: leave him alone, and give him space to unwind.

But Munakata had not left him alone. Not entirely. Sometimes it was vaguely unsettling to be able to see through someone’s defence so effortlessly; it stirred his curiosity, made him wonder how Fushimi would react if Munakata was to tip him over the edge. Seeing a boundary and testing it, such was the _vice_ he occasionally indulged in. And so with the voice of a scientist about to start an unseemly experiment, Munakata talked to Fushimi about what he thought of him. The signs were so clear they were almost self-explanatory. No matter how agitated Fushimi might be, he spoke to Munakata on the verge of politeness and would not sink to being vulgar; no matter how gruff Fushimi kept his voice, he did not have the innate rowdiness that defined the Red Clan. Fushimi kept his shoulders hunched and his stance uncouth, but his clothes were tidy, his fingernails cleaned and trimmed, and the collar of his shirt polished in a way that betrayed a refined if sheltered upbringing.

Of course, Munakata went on allowing his voice to become intentionally didactic. And just as he had expected, Fushimi riled up, saying he hated grownups who always lectured him on what was what. This further confirmed Munakata’s notion that Fushimi was a child. Not in the sense that he had a child’s simplistic view of how things worked, but that he would not disguise how he thought of other people, let alone butter up Munakata simply because he was a powerful man and the Blue King. With regard to things that truly mattered, Fushimi would not let his personal opinion get in the way. He was a reflection of Munakata in that sense.

Towards the end of the session, however, Fushimi made a move that Munakata barely anticipated. He attacked a Scepter 4 member who did nothing more than come up and see how things were going. For a fleeting moment Munakata thought he had perhaps overestimated Fushimi. To stop him, Munakata caught him by the wrist, fingers closing around the delicate protrusion of the ulna to rest against an uneasy pulse. A look into Fushimi’s eyes ensued and explained everything, because whatever the boy had to say would not convince Munakata otherwise: Fushimi hadn’t meant it to happen, and that was enough. 

Their next meeting was straight to the point, and unexpectedly informative because Munakata was granted a glimpse of something that bordered on being overly personal. That morning Munakata witnessed Fushimi at his worst yet: dishevelled and worn out after a night of working at the computer, threatened by the impending attack from the Green King and helpless, Munakata thought the moment of deliverance could not have arrived any later. He knew Fushimi felt obliged to him now, but Fushimi showed his feelings by slighting Munakata. Munakata watched Fushimi climb down from his top bunk, saw the invisible hackles raised at his attempt to soothe them, and knew that they both had a long journey ahead.

Munakata could also see that Fushimi was troubled by something, as plainly as he could see the clear mind beneath the affected cynicism and sometimes self-loathing. There had to be a reason behind it, and the reason seemed to have taken the shape of a burn scar over Fushimi’s Homra insignia. Munakata had seen the same flame-shaped insignia brandished at him during his encounters with the Red Clan. Suoh was never the one that started it; it was his underlings, energetic yet frustrated young men pinning their life to a symbol of ruthless destruction. 

Fushimi never sought to hide his share of the symbol; instead, he swaggered about at Scepter 4, invoking antagonism wherever he went. Munakata had seen it quite early on, and thought he had never seen anything so ironic: a symbol of everlasting flame, burnt away by its own menace. 

It had to be Fushimi’s own doing, because Suoh would not punish a Clansman that was never meant for him. At Scepter 4, the reason behind Fushimi’s burning off his Homra insignia hovered at the centre of all the rumours that surrounded him. Whatever it was, it haunted Fushimi and tugged at his nerves with just the right amount of pressure to strain them to the extreme. Half an ounce more would snap them, and the child would fade clean away, to be replaced by a twisted mirage of surging adulthood.

Towards the end of the previous year, Fushimi came down with a fever caused by his bleeding scar. After hearing the rather graphic details from a traumatised-looking Awashima, Munakata visited Fushimi in his room with the intention of assessing the damage. It confirmed his presumption that one of Fushimi’s crises had come, except that Fushimi himself had been the perpetrator. Again Munakata was seized with the odd desire to indulge in his vice, to prod Fushimi where he was hurting, but checked himself. It was one of those moments when the connection between thoughts and moves must be severed, regardless of how strong the urge to cross the line might threaten to override it.

Instead, Munakata did two things, one sensible and one not so much. The first thing was to offer words of sympathy and a day off to Fushimi at Awashima’s insistence. It went quickly, leaving few traces behind as all pleasantries do. The second thing was to tell Fushimi that he was to take charge of the Intelligence Division. It meant that tremendous amount of work would be dumped onto Fushimi’s already jiggling plate. And as he spoke, Munakata’s clear and multitasking mind geared up and flung two words at him: _child abuse_. A saner if equally unethical alternative would be _workplace harassment_ , but considering they were both rather sour cherries on a less-than-palatable cake, variety didn’t matter.

The rationale was that Fushimi would focus less on his internal crisis if he had too much work to do. And in his case, internal crisis hurt him much, much worse than overwork. This was the sort of thing Munakata knew just by observing Fushimi. He did not need to know the nature of the crisis; he had seen it manifested in the shape of an obviously self-inflicted wound, and that sealed his diagnosis. As for the extra workload, it would only save Fushimi. He might not see his own talent as anything more than cleverness, but someone watching over him had seen more, and deeper down.

As with every other member at _his_ Scepter 4, Munakata valued talent above everything else. But talent isn’t everything, as able members from the older Scepter 4 would testify. Munakata had an seemingly empty puzzle board before him; he was the only person that could visualise the underlying picture, so he would not collect pieces that could not click together. 

It would seem that Fushimi was a loner piece that could not click. Every day Munakata went about his business, and heard rumours about Fushimi that were anything but positive. Was he playing favourites like they said, or worse, was he fond of Fushimi in a way that breached certain code of conduct? Munakata stood over his emerging puzzle board with a smile that dimmed even his usually unclouded judgement, and said nothing. Whatever it was, it was not mingled with personal feelings. He neither liked nor disliked Fushimi in a certain way. He simply found him _intriguing._

 

 

* * *

 

*: I decided to let Scepter 4 members call Munakata captain (drawing on the military side) but when non-Scepter 4 people or Munakata talks about his job in a non-military context they would use director (drawing on the civilian side; a bit like _Shindler’s List_ where Shindler is called Herr Direktor when he is actually head of a manufacturing company).

Munakata’s title is always Shitsucho (literally _office head_ ) in Japanese. But since I’m not a big fan of using Japanese words & mannerisms in my writing (hence also the absence of -san, -kun, -chan) I try to convey the ambiguity (both linguistic and contextual) by using English equivalents as best as I can. 

 

**A/N** : It’s a pity that GoRA rarely gets into Munakata’s head apart from brief moments in Case Files of Blue, so I did. The part with the Gold King contains a short recap of the three kings' meeting (Gold, Red, Blue) in K R:B, and the part where Munakata reflects on his first meeting with Fushimi is loosely based on K Lost Small World (albeit from Fushimi’s POV in the canon). 


	7. The Training Inspector

_‘Upon the moon I fix’d my eye,_

_All over the wide lea;_

_With quickening pace my horse drew nigh_

_Those paths so dear to me.’_

_(William Wordsworth - ‘Lucy’)_

 

The records office was one of the two rooms that had _General Affairs Division_ stamped to its front door. Unbeknownst to people from other divisions, it also had a back door that led directly to the clerks’ office, namely the other room that shared the name of General Affairs. This way, people working in this division could hide within their little haven all day without having to talk to people from the outside world.

ZENJO Goki never thought he would be content sitting in such a dingy room at the back of the entire building, nine to five, Monday to Friday. His table was tiny, but the shelves behind him were not. They were gigantic, library-standard archives that stood in long, neat rows, cramming the otherwise spacious office like packed sardines cramming their grooved little tins, which happened to be what Zenjo had for his and his cat’s lunch on this particular day in early March, washed down with a cup of lukewarm black coffee.

Not that dates and months mattered much to him. Zenjo stifled a yawn that always preceded his post-lunch dip, and stood up, his bulk straining the unaccommodating uniform. Its design was different to that of the current Scepter 4 uniforms; the lapel was narrower but extended well beneath the diaphragm, and the colour of the decoration was less pronounced. A single epaulette draped over Zenjo’s left shoulder, covering where the upper arm was with a droop that suggested lack of substance beneath. The left sleeve was empty, tied into a simple knot at the elbow.

Looking at him, Zenjo had the build of a rather tall boxer and the air of someone who survived unmentionable torture. A gash of scar slashed across his nose, cutting into the cheeks on both sides, above which a pair of hazel eyes hid behind small, round glasses that had the look of two old-fashioned monocles soldered together. They looked out of place on him.

A meowing sound drew Zenjo’s attention to his feet. A skinny, slightly bedraggled-looking tabby was rubbing its face against his left ankle. Zenjo stooped with a slight groan and patted its head with a heavily-calloused right hand. His only hand. The tabby purred loudly, sending feline kisses at the muscular wrist with slow-blinking eyes. It was probably asking for more sardines, but Zenjo had only given in very recently because the tabby looked under the weather and was acting strange. It had probably spent the better half of its life as a stray, and was now settling down a bit when its health began to fail.

The cat was another accessory that looked out of place on a man such as Zenjo, except that Zenjo would probably disagree with the voice of a bull that cats were animals with a soul of their own, and therefore could not be treated as mere accessories. Younger and newer members from other divisions had gawked at the furry little thing as it clung possessively to Zenjo’s forearm, unable to comprehend that this giant of a man would keep a pet, and least of all a cat. Cats were fastidious, and _feminine_ , for God’s sake.

‘Liked your lunch, did you?’ Zenjo’s voice was gruffer than usual from lack of use, and drowned what little affection he might have been professing.

The cat meowed again, then stiffened at the sound of footsteps that did not belong to Zenjo. Zenjo straightened up, his back hurting from having sat too long in a chair. The cat skulked out of sight, the bell around its neck ringing faintly.

‘Mr Zenjo.’

It was Awashima, Lieutenant and second-in-command to the current Captain. Zenjo greeted her with a nod.

As was her wont, Awashima cut straight to the point, ‘Have you been taking part in the swordsmanship training, Mr Zenjo?’

Zenjo smiled, and the smile was pained, ‘You can see I haven’t.’

‘A fine swordsman such as yourself should not feel content living the life of a files clerk,’ Awashima held her gaze. ‘For one thing, you are still carrying your sword around.’

She was right. On the left-hand side of Zenjo’s waistband hung a sword-like weapon, shorter than Awashima’s sabre, but wider at the blade with a slight indention to the tip. It was a sword designed for cutting and not stabbing.

No one in Scepter 4 had seen Zenjo unsheathe his sword, let alone wield it. It simply hung at his waist like a part of his coat. Few people knew the story behind the sword, or whose blood it had once shed.

‘What do you want with me?’ said Zenjo, his voice low and rumbling. A habitual growl was on the verge of getting out, but he didn’t feel cross with Awashima, and kept it down.

Awashima seemed satisfied with Zenjo’s reaction, ‘I want you as a training inspector for our Swords and Combat Division. What do you think?’

‘Isn’t that your job?’

‘Yes, but I specialise in training them up. Or rather,’ Awashima paused, ‘I would say it would be a delight to have you as the primary trainer. Captain Munakata wishes the same.’

Zenjo studied Awashima’s face. The taste of coffee lingered sharp and bitter in his mouth, but the wave of sleepiness refused to ebb; his lunch break was over, ‘When do you want me to inspect?’

‘As soon as you are able. I will arrange for someone else to mind the records office while you run your sessions. But you are still in charge here, if you wish.’

‘I haven’t agreed to it yet, Ms Awashima.’

‘It’s settled, then. You know better than I that you want to, Mr Zenjo.’

 

The first training session of the afternoon started the moment the clock struck one. Zenjo was a few minutes late, and when he arrived, he could hear people’s voices and the sound of swords swishing. He squeezed through the doorframe and leant his heavy body against the locker, watching.

The training room was in the same building as the records office, but was on the ground floor and one of half a dozen that stood parallel like pieces of toast on a rack. The first thing which struck Zenjo was that there were far less trainees than he had been expecting. In this particular room and session, there were only eight or nine people, all dressed in standard kendo clothes and equipped with protective gears that appeared more impeding than protective. The only exception was Awashima, who wore a tank top and yoga pants, giving off the impression that she was doing workouts in a gym. Presently she saw Zenjo and greeted him with a nod. 

The trainees barely noticed Zenjo. Faces hiding behind slotted helmets, they held their bamboo swords and went through what Zenjo could only surmise as a variation of the standard kendo drills. Awashima stood at the front and was the only person wielding a sabre. Her moves were precise and deadly, but were also less kendo-like than those of the trainees’. Based on her moves, the trainees seemed to be practising parries, but their swords never touched hers, and each person appeared to be guarding a small circle of space around his feet. The overall picture was as pleasant as it was lacking.

After a quarter of an hour, Awashima blew a whistle and called for a short break. The trainees broke into cheerful clamour and began to take off their helmets. The room smelt of sweat and deodorant and, unless Zenjo was mistaken, mint tea.    

Awashima walked to the door and stood by Zenjo, unscrewing the cap of her thermos. Zenjo suddenly realised where the smell of mint was from.

‘Thank you for coming, Mr Zenjo. What do you think? Any suggestions?’

Zenjo smiled wryly at the straightforwardness, ‘What was it, kendo?’

‘No. Part-fencing, part-aura control. We have kendo practices separately. This one is for unleashing the Blue power and using it.’

Zenjo’s eyes glided past the helmet-free faces of the trainees, finding them unbelievably young, ‘I suppose these people are just a small number of those that train under you?’

‘Yes, we train in batches. No more than ten to a batch, so I can keep an eye on their moves and correct them.’

Zenjo was tired from a morning of typing up documents; lines of texts swam in his head and splashed his attention, ‘I think that’s enough for today.’

Awashima was about to take another swig from her thermos, but stopped, ‘The session lasts two hours. This is just a short break.’

Zenjo smiled and shifted his weight to his feet, ‘ You appear to know what you are doing, Ms Awashima. I don’t see why I have to stay the whole session.’

‘Are you sure what we are doing is sufficient?’

Zenjo stopped by the door. He hadn’t meant to give any personal opinion, but the way she asked prompted him.

‘They shouldn’t train with protectors on,’ he said slowly. ‘I hate to break this to you, Ms Awashima, but one day your men will find themselves on battlefields where there won’t be any helmet to protect them.’

_And even if there was, it wouldn’t save them anyway._

Awashima seemed momentarily taken aback, but soon regained her composure, ‘Thank you. Anything else?’

Zenjo sighed. He didn’t want to exhume old habits from his own past and impose them on young men who served a different Blue King. 

‘You might want to train them in larger batches, and let them fight for real.’

 

**†**

 

Akiyama sat on the floor, rubbing his left knee. It hurt him when he was practising his moves, and he was sure he hadn’t bumped it or scraped it anywhere. Maybe he strained it by putting unwanted weight on his left leg when he shouldn’t, who knows. There remained the solid, aching fact that he wasn’t as top-notch as he hoped after having spotted a strange man watching them from the corner of the room just moments ago. 

He felt a nudge in the small of his back. 

‘You all right?’

‘Don’t use your toe.’

Benzai chuckled and nudged him again, ‘What else then, my ego?’

Akiyama cringed and declined to comment. Benzai sat down beside him with a soft thump, ‘You’ve been watching that man for a while.’ He pointed at the door with his chin.

‘So I have.’

‘I wonder who he is. He looks … forbidding.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Akiyama, ‘but in a good way. I think he’d make an excellent trainer.’

‘You wish. I’ve never seen him before. And he looks like a Swords person.’

‘You noticed his sword?’

‘Yes, but he’d be a Swords person without a sword anyway. I can just tell.’

Akiyama glanced around. People were standing or lounging about, talking and unwinding. With a set procedure and regular short breaks, sessions like this were nice. The most exciting thing would be to get an emergency dispatch mid-training, which they hadn’t had for a while. Maybe that was why things were starting to get a bit soporific only very recently. Some of the edge was wearing off.

‘Obviously Lieutenant Awashima has a lot of respect for him,’ Benzai was saying, his eyes still glued to the door. ‘I’d say she invited him because she wants to spice things up a bit.’

Akiyama opened his mouth to concur, but at the same moment a large, white something swished through the air and flattened against the side of his head, sending him colliding against Benzai’s shoulder as the latter lost balance and fell sidelong to the floor with a yelp.

‘An attack!’ Benzai pushed Akiyama off him and sprung up, clutching his bamboo sword. Akiyama felt the side of his head gingerly before climbing to his feet, ‘What was that for?’

They were both face to face with a fellow trainee who looked like he would give anything to get away from where he was standing. He had bright auburn hair and was rather lanky, and his eyes appeared to be twice the normal size either due to shock, or embarrassment, or probably both. The large, white thing that hit Akiyama earlier lay in a fluffy heap at his feet. It looked like - 

‘A dressing gown?’

Akiyama stared as the young man stooped to pick it up. Something black and heavy fell with a clatter to the floor. The young man grimaced and slammed a palm to his forehead.

‘Sorry, mister. It was a misfire.’

‘What is _that_?!’

Three pairs of eyes darted to the floor where the heavy and black thing lay.

‘Oh, that! Uhm, yes, it’s, umm, so basically, if you see a fussy bloke with a bun in his hair coming this way, tell him I was just -‘

‘DOMYOJI ANDY!’

Domyoji dropped the white fluffy dressing gown and legged it. A man with long, dark hair tied behind his head stormed towards Akiyama and Benzai, then changed course half-way and stormed after Domyoji. The side of his head still smarting, Akiyama bent over and picked up the heavy, black thing. It was a tape recorder.

To his right, Benzai scooped up the dressing gown with a flourish. It was snowy white and soft and fluffy, and came with a hood that had a pair of bunny ears jutting from the top.  

‘A tape recorder wrapped in a … what is _this_ , a kid’s costume?’

‘What _is_ going on!?’

Awashima’s voice, seemingly magnified ten-and-a-half times, stapled everyone to the floor. Domyoji paused mid-gallop, tripped over his own feet, and landed face down on someone’s neglected helmet with a howl of pain. The forbidding-looking man at the door had disappeared. Apparently it was training time again. 

‘Domyoji!’

Domyoji bounced up with the helmet hanging rather haphazardly to his hair.

‘Yes, ma’am!’

‘Thirty laps and a hundred press-ups after this session!’

‘Y-Yes, ma’am!’

The trainees assembled. Akiyama noticed the man with long, dark hair approached Domyoji with a sinister smile and whispered something in his ear. Domyoji jerked back violently, and the helmet on his head fell tumbling to the floor.

‘No way, Mr Kamo, you big berk - ’ 

‘Language, Domyoji!’

‘Wha - Sorry, ma’am!’

‘Attention!’

Everyone clicked their heels together. Awashima glared at each and every one of them, shooting prolonged daggers Domyoji’s way.

‘In our next session we will train without any protective equipment. Understand?’

‘Yes, ma’am!’

‘Good. We start in thirty seconds. Get your swords and put yourselves together!’

‘Thirty seconds. She really is angry,’ muttered Benzai rather audibly.

‘Barking mad,’ a voice behind Akiyama made him jump. Domyoji was behind him putting the helmet in the locker, and Akiyama hadn’t noticed him moving at all. 

‘You are the Swords One commander, Mr Akiyama, right?’ Domyoji continued, ‘Thought I’ve seen you a couple times, but we never talked. Sorry about that, uhm, that misfire,’ he finished rather self-consciously, and it struck Akiyama that someone like Domyoji was actually capable of feeling self-conscious.

They reassembled in the centre of the room. Akiyama noticed Domyoji was diagonally in front him and lowered his voice, ‘What was that for, anyway?’

Domyoji shrugged and almost uppercut Akiyama on the chin with his shoulder, ‘Will tell you later. It’s all Mr Kamo’s fault, I swear on my laps and press-ups and that bunny ears dressing gown. ’

Akiyama thought for a moment and decided to bypass the third offer. Then the shrill sound of Awashima’s whistle caught his attention and drew his mind back to the training. Without protective gears, it felt like they were in for a real fight this time. He glanced sideways, caught Benzai’s eye, and knew from the raised corners of his mouth that he was thinking the same.

_This is going to get serious._

 

After talking to the forbidding-looking Swords member - or so Akiyama thought - Lieutenant Awashima seemed a different person. The drills got more intense and less generic, and she actually encouraged the trainees to pair up and practise what Akiyama recognised was duelling. She walked between rows giving short instructions on what each of them was supposed to do, even parrying an occasional attack with a swinging of her sword. 

‘That was good,’ she said after a few rounds. ‘Now, people, switch with the person before or behind you, depending on where you are.’

Akiyama looked at Benzai and saw his own bemusement reflected in Benzai’s eyes. Awashima happened to be near them, and cleared her throat loudly.

‘It’s like you are fighting an opponent you have never fought before. If you keep practising with the same partner, you will get used to their moves and start to think everyone is the same. Akiyama!’

Akiyama snapped to attention, ‘Yes, ma’am!’

‘Time to switch. You pair up with Domyoji, and Benzai with Kamo. Move it, people!’

Akiyama glanced rather apprehensively at Domyoji, who stood cross him, brushing his sweaty hair from his eyes, looking perfectly at ease.

‘So we are mock opponents now, aren’t we, Mr Akiyama?’

‘Yes, I suppose so, Mr Domyoji.’

Domyoji winced slightly, ‘Just Domyoji, please. Formalities are a pain. Shall we start?’

Akiyama’s grip tightened on the bamboo sword. Bluish vapours appeared and began to swirl around his hand, slowly coating the sword from the hilt up. Domyoji raised a mischievous eyebrow, ‘Not bad. Well, then.’

He charged. Akiyama saw a flash of electric blue expanding and then disappearing from where Domyoji was standing a seeming millisecond ago; the speed was astonishing, and Akiyama’s mind was still blank when his body reacted instinctively. His sword shot out and clashed with Domyoji’s in mid air, resulting in a heavy, ringing clang that sounded more like metal than wood. Akiyama’s hand went numb with the raw power vibrating from and against both swords. Almost simultaneously, they swung their arms to the side and jumped apart. 

The air became fluid with unleashed Blue aura as they briefly sized each other up. There was a wild and exhilarated look in Domyoji’s eyes, and slowly, Akiyama felt an answering stir in the depth of his whole being. It was a predator’s stir at the sight of its quarry. 

‘That was brilliant.’

‘Same to you.’

They charged again.

 

**†**

 

The session finished on time despite minor disturbances during the first break. Awashima’s new training scheme worked miracles, so much so that she had to blow her whistle twice to get everyone’s attention amid all the swishing and clanging and aura-twirling. 

‘I hope you have all sharpened up a bit with different opponents, ’ her voice reverberated in the room. ‘Next time we will have members from all four squads training together en masse. So be prepared.’

‘Yes, ma’am!’ the trainees saluted as one.

‘Session complete. You are dismissed.’

The formation began to break off. Domyoji yawned, banging Akiyama on the ear with an elbow.

‘Ouch!’

‘Oh, sorry!’ Domyoji grinned apologetically, ‘I seem to always rub people up the wrong way these days.’

Akiyama noticed he had a habit of accenting one or two random syllables in his every sentence. ‘More like knocking people down, actually.’

‘Oh, but what harrowing tragedy awaits me in the shape of thy reverend lieutenant - ’

‘Domyoji!’

Domyoji choked mid-chant at the sound of Awashima’s voice.

‘Come to the outdoor training field after clean-up. I will triple the number of laps and press-ups if you don’t,’ and with that, Awashima left the room.

‘Come on, Domyoji. It’s not the first time, is it.’

Kamo came up and nudged Domyoji with a knee, who had squatted down with both hands covering his head in a pose of rather pathetic despair.

‘Like you are one to talk, Mr Kamo.’

Akiyama thought Domyoji sounded like a kid on the verge of throwing a tantrum. He caught Kamo’s eye, who grimaced.

‘Certifiable retard, this one,’ Kamo’s knee gave another forceful jab against Domyoji’s spine, eliciting a yelp. 

Akiyama glanced up and saw Benzai talking to the rest of the trainees.

‘They are free to leave,’ Benzai explained. ‘So it’s the four of us for the clean-up.’

Kamo put both hands on Domyoji’s shoulders until he was resting most of his weight on him, ‘Come on, retard. I shall spare you for your suicidal attempt to pinch my recorder.’

Benzai was already picking up bamboo swords with the basket in tow. Akiyama saw the tape recorder and  dressing gown shoved to the edge of the wall near the lockers, and went to get them.

‘Here’s your recorder and, uh, clothes.’

‘Cheers,’ said Kamo cheerfully. ‘Put the recorder by the door, please. I’ll take it when I leave. The, uh, dressing gown,’ he rose with a look on his face that reminded Akiyama of someone suffering from chronic toothache. ‘I suppose you could leave it where it is. It’s not meant for me, anyway.’

Domyoji clambered to his feet, still clutching his head, ‘It’s a birthday present for Mr Kamo’s little girl!’

Akiyama’s jaw dropped, ‘You have a daughter, Mr Kamo?’

Kamo sensed rather than saw three pairs of eyes fall on him from different directions. He sighed, ‘Yes, the tape recorder is a present too. But I, uh, my wife and I are separated, so I don’t get to see her, I mean, my daughter, very often.’

‘Which means you’ve no idea what size she wears or if she’s even into tapes,’ supplied Domyoji with feigned sympathy. ‘Surely that dressing gown is too big for a toddler, isn’t it, Mr Akiyama?’

Akiyama looked down at the dressing gown in his hands, ‘I suppose so. It looks like it’s for older children.’

‘Give it to her anyway,’ said Benzai, who already resumed gathering bamboo swords. ‘She’ll grow into it sooner than you think.’

Domyoji shifted his attention to Benzai, ‘No way. It’d be out of fashion by then. Don’t you know that buying a lady antique clothes is worse than buying her nothing?’

‘It’s only Mr Kamo’s daughter. Who are you talking about, your girlfriend?’

‘What I said applies to every member of the fairer sex, young or old, daughter or girlfriend.’

Akiyama could sense a tidal wave of Domyoji-induced insanity coming up. Kamo seemed to feel the same, and shot Akiyama another tooth-achy look before grabbing Domyoji by the scruff of the neck and dragging him away. 

‘He’s a bit hyper, that Domyoji is,’ remarked Benzai when Akiyama joined him in tidying up. ‘I heard he’s the commander of Swords Four?’

‘Yes, and he’s one of the youngest in the entire div,’ Akiyama thought about his training with Domyoji. ‘He’s an excellent swordsman, though.’

‘Is he? Maybe he’s one of those geniuses that excel in one aspect and are total simpletons in everything else.’

‘Hey, that’s a bit harsh.’

‘Well, he’s got to be. You’re only into him because you had fun fighting one another.’

Akiyama felt compelled to digress, ‘How was yours with Mr Kamo, anyway?’

‘Great. Mr Kamo has a very distinctive way of fighting. We didn’t get to chat much, but I don’t think he used to be in the army or anywhere. He’s definitely not a military man.’

‘I used to think Captain Munakata only hires people from the police force and the army.’

‘Apparently not. I mean, even if he did, it would be just our div, wouldn’t it,’ Benzai sounded thoughtful. ‘I think Captain Munakata hired quite a few youngsters for other divs last year. They would have been at school or uni then.’

As if on cue, the image of a bespectacled, sullen-faced teenager rose to the forefront of Akiyama’s mind. ‘I wouldn’t say quite a few, Benzai. Just one. Or maybe two.’

They scouted for loose bamboo swords around the room. Then Kamo brought a hoover and Domyoji mops. For a while they were four swordsmen-turned-cleaners working side by side. Soon, however, the subject of another concern was brought up.

‘Who’s doing the session sheet for today?’

 Domyoji raised a finger, ‘I’m not, but I will. I’d like to swap with whoever’s doing it. I do the sheet for him and he does the laps and press-ups for me.’

Kamo silenced him with a look, ‘What do you think, Mr Akiyama?’

‘Uhm, I haven’t done it in a while,’ said Akiyama slowly, then decided. ‘Sure, I’ll do it.’

Domyoji sighed so dramatically it sounded like an old woman weeping, ‘You are such a cruel and heartless person, Mr Akiyama.’ 

‘That’s way too scathing coming from someone so young,’ remarked Kamo, a corner of his mouth twitching.

‘Sorry, Domyoji.’

Domyoji gave a small shrug before stalking out of the room, ‘Here’s hoping Lt Awashima doesn’t throw me on the griller, gentlemen!’

Kamo laughed as Domyoji shut the door behind him. 

 

**†**

 

Fushimi threw his PDA on the desk and slumped against his seat. He had just received a call from Awashima and ended up explaining to her what he had been doing with Scepter 4’s intranet, and now felt his throat was on fire from a mixture of dehydration and annoyance, which was partly due to his having to conceal said annoyance when talking to her. Fushimi disliked explaining technical terms to people, and least of all to people such as Awashima precisely because he didn’t dislike her. He wanted her to understand but also hated the prospect of having to explain everything. Why can’t she work things out on her own?

This was the second phone call Fushimi received this afternoon. The first one was from Orange Electronics. It transpired that Orange was unable to fix the bugs in their commercial platform and was now forced to shut down part of its service in Tokyo, causing an uproar of customer complaints. Orange wanted to consult Fushimi on how to fix the bugs, because he had at least located their whereabouts when he was in Nanakamado the previous month. Fushimi’s head was already hurting from staring at the screen, so he hung up without a word, only to get yet another phone call from Awashima.

And now he had to ring Akiyama. Or Benzai. It didn’t matter, those two stuck together like blobs of leftover mozzarella anyway. He had to ring one of them because he was air-headed enough to have let slip that the situation at Orange might call for an investigation, and Awashima had insisted that he contact Akiyama and Benzai and put them on standby in case said investigation was to commence at the drop of a hat. After sincerely considering the feasibility of dropping nothing but his PDA, Fushimi agreed to it just to shut her up.

Fushimi stared at the PDA on the table. The desire to fling it out the window was passing. He picked it up and dialled the number at the top of the alphabet.

When he left, Fushimi made a detour to avoid the flock of Swords members coming in for their devil knows which training session. He skirted the outdoor training field, and increased his steps when he caught sight of Awashima blowing a whistle at some nondescript sod doing press-ups at her feet. 

To get to the residential hall from this side, he had to pass another building. It stood at the back of the headquarter premises and seemed to be full of rooms exclusively reserved for traditional office clerks. From the window, Fushimi could see people sitting by their tables, working. At one particularly large window sat a man who looked like he ought to be in the training room. His small round glasses perched at the very end of his nose as he typed on a keyboard so old it could have been pinched from a museum. For a moment Fushimi’s eyes were fixed on the scar across the man’s nose. _This person must have seen rougher days._

 

**†**

 

Akiyama sank into his chair with a yawn. His eyes hurt from doing the session report, and the ache in his left knee had returned no thanks to the physical labour in the name of post-training clean-up. 

‘Cuppa tea?’

Akiyama turned to find Benzai with a kettle in his hand.

‘Yes please. Get the biggest mug you can find. Cheers.’

Benzai went to their shared bookshelf, where a tiny section was set up as a makeshift cupboard, ‘Sugar?’

‘Yes, two please - no, five - make it nine, actually.’

‘Good God, you must be flat out.’

Akiyama watched Benzai put two steaming mugs on the table and leant forward gratefully. For a moment he forgot which one was his. All mugs in the residential hall were identical.

‘Which one is mine?’

Benzai took the one on the right, ‘That’s yours. See if you can check the sticker without spilling.’

They had put name stickers on the bottom of each mug. Akiyama owned two - one for tea and one for coffee - and Benzai three because his second was slightly chipped down the handle. Akiyama contemplated checking the sticker in a manner that wouldn’t give him a third-degree burn, then gave up and took a sip.

‘That’s a tough one.’

‘What is?’

Benzai pointed at the session sheet, ‘Looks thicker than I remembered. Do they want novels instead of reports now?’

Akiyama shrugged, ‘It’s not that bad. A fair portion of it is a survey that asks you questions about your aura control.’

‘Sounds like the sort of thing the Intel Div wants to know.’

Which reminded Akiyama, ‘Maybe that’s why Fushimi is coming. He just rang me up when you were getting the kettle.’

‘Fushimi, rang you up?’

‘Yes.’

Benzai set down his half-emptied mug and looked at Akiyama, long and hard and sceptical. Akiyama shifted uncomfortably, ‘What?’

 Benzai’s voice was even more sceptical, ‘What does Fushimi want with you?’

‘He just said he needed to see us. He sounded a bit cross, if that helps.’

‘Huh, very,’ Benzai crossed his arms. ‘It’s got to be urgent business, then.’

 

 


	8. The Flowers That Never Last

  
  
_‘Like the sun’s tear shattered on stone,_  
_That was his colour._  
_And how easily he climbed, and how high_  
_Certainly, climbing, he wanted_  
_To kiss the last of my world._  
  
_(Pavel Friedemann - ‘I never saw another butterfly’)_

  
  
  
Under normal circumstances, BENZAI Yujiro was of the opinion that nothing out of the ordinary would happen in his and his friend Akiyama’s life. From the defence force to Scepter 4, the two of them had worked together for several years and lived through a lot, mostly situations tight or sticky or regrettably hairy, but nothing out of the ordinary, and most certainly nothing abnormal, thank you very much.  
  
Hence his sceptical look and voice when Akiyama announced over his mug that Fushimi would be visiting. Not that anything Akiyama announced over his mug was more noteworthy than it had any right to be. The fact was that neither he, Benzai, nor Akiyama, was on speaking terms with Fushimi, who practically lived and breathed the lexical definition of aloofness, probably encompassing all available editions in print past and present and in every language ever known to man. That aside, they didn’t even work in the same div, so business terms was also out of the picture. And now Benzai was told that Fushimi was to visit them in their room. To declare it abnormal was not an understatement.  
  
‘Mr Akiyama, Mr Benzai, can I have a word?’  
  
Benzai answered with a nod and left the talking to Akiyama. Fushimi was standing in the doorway, his right hand in his trouser pocket and his left hand resting on the knuckle guard of his sabre. His wording was a blend of casual and semi-formal, and his voice was lacklustre with a kind of weariness that almost matched Akiyama’s before he was given his sickeningly sweet tea.  
  
‘Sure. Please come in,’ said Akiyama flatly, but not unkindly.  
  
Fushimi eyed the interior of the room, ‘Better not. I’d like to get it over with as quick as I can.’  
  
Akiyama sought Benzai’s eyes. Benzai grimaced and gave him a you-go-ahead look.  
  
‘Lieutenant Awashima sent me,’ Fushimi began. ‘I might need to investigate a cyberattack case in Nanakamado. At this stage I can’t confirm if an investigation is needed, but in the event that it is, Lieutenant Awashima wants you two to come along.’  
  
Benzai felt the urge to break the silence, ‘Why Nanakamado? Isn’t it the Gold Clan’s territory?’  
  
Fushimi shot him an inimical look, ‘They asked for my help, and I was stupid enough to have let Lieutenant Awashima override my decision to say no.’  
  
It was explanatory enough, but it also brought forth other questions. The biggest was why Fushimi seemed to be operating alone when he was clearly one of the many people working at the Intelligence Division. Vaguely, Benzai thought he knew the answer.  
  
‘Are you acting under Captain Munakata’s authorisation?’  
  
Fushimi went pale, ‘Are you suggesting I’m mucking around and have no idea what I’m doing?’  
  
To Benzai, Fushimi’s anger was unjustifiable; but then, few teenage angers were. Benzai shrugged, ‘It’s not an accusation. I was just wondering. ’  
  
‘I see,’ said Akiyama matter-of-factly. ‘Just give me a ring when you need us. I’ll do whatever I can to help.’  
  
Fushimi looked at Akiyama with the same defiant anger. But when he next spoke, his voice was much calmer.  
  
‘Okay. That’s all you need to know for now. See you, then.’  
  
Benzai let out a huff of air when Fushimi’s footsteps trailed off down the corridor.  
  
‘Another mission on the horizon. Not bad.’  
  
Akiyama’s attention was back on his tea again, ‘You think Captain Munakata gave Fushimi the liberty to act on his own?’  
  
Benzai knew his earlier question did not escape Akiyama’s notice, ‘I don’t “think” that way. I can just tell.’  
  
‘Fushimi went to Nanakamado with Captain Munakata a while ago, remember? I suppose it’s the same business.’  
  
Benzai downed the last of his tea, ‘Put it this way. I’ve never yet seen the Captain with anyone apart from Lieutenant Awashima. She’s the Captain’s second-in-command, so it’s understandable they spend quite some time talking shop together. But Fushimi is just an ordinary member of the intel div.’  
  
‘Well, what do you expect? They wouldn’t talk about anything else. Especially not Fushimi. He doesn’t talk at all unless it’s shop. ’  
  
Benzai put down his mug and went to the cupboard.  
  
‘It must be quite nice being a special case, mustn’t it?’  
  
He wasn’t expecting Akiyama to comment on that. And sure enough, Akiyama didn’t. On certain occasions they understood each another too well for words, and this was one of them.

  
**†**

  
  
The air was thick and heavy with the humidity of a rainy summer. Behind the crammed little flat, an equally crammed backyard lay toasting in the late afternoon sun. Everything appeared to be hovering behind thin vapours of heat rising from the tarmac. Among bushes and tree leaves, crickets shrilled with a languid persistence that hailed a looming thunderstorm.  
   
Fushimi lay sprawled in a hammock tied between two sturdy walnut trees. The leaves provided precious shelter from the sun, but they also attracted birds and insects that simply wouldn’t stop making a racket.  
Fushimi sat up with a sigh. The hammock dipped with a slight swing, threatening to topple him over. He wriggled until his weight was digging a trough out of the centre of the mesh, and crossed his legs. After a moment of quivering, the hammock became still.  
  
Fushimi’s clothes was sticking to his skin. He undid the second button on his shirt, then the third. Sweat was running down his neck and began to pool in the hollow of his collarbone. He rubbed it against his collar, feeling the liquid seeping through the fabric, a disgusted look on his face.  
  
‘Saruhiko!’  
  
Fushimi’s head snapped up like that of an alarmed animal. The door to the flat was flung open, and a boy came running out.  
  
‘Keep your voice down!’  
  
The boy skidded to a halt by the hammock, grinning from ear to ear. The sun slanted in through the twigs and shattered over his hair, turning the longish strands into a canvas of tawny and gold.  
  
‘Loafing about as usual, you are.’  
  
Fushimi shifted without comment. The boy sank both hands into the mesh of the hammock and levelled himself up so that he was sitting next to Fushimi, their shoulders jammed awkwardly together as they shifted to regain lodgement.  
  
‘How’s your homework going?’  
  
The boy ran a hand through his hair, ‘No good. Been stuck for half an hour. I’m throwing in the towel.’ he was wearing a T-shirt that was way too large for him; and judging by its slightly soggy look, the air conditioner in the house was broken.  
  
‘I’m not staying here any longer,’ said Fushimi, making up his mind. ‘One more bloody second and my brain would melt and ooze from my ears. Coming?’  
  
‘Where to?’  
  
‘The City Library, or a cafe, wherever. As long as there’s air con on.’  
  
The boy’s face brightened, ‘That reminds me. There’s an ice cream machine on the way to the library. Your shout.’  
  
‘Yours.’  
  
‘Stuff it, Saruhiko. It was mine yesterday.’  
  
Fushimi uncrossed his legs and landed on the ground with a soft thump, the soles of his shoes grating the tarmac.  
  
‘You can stay up there till dark. I’m going.’ He stepped under the sun and felt the moisture on his skin began to evaporate beneath prickles of heat.  
  
There was a loud thump behind him, and seconds later the sensation of a hand slamming against his shoulder.  
  
‘I would if you came back with double ice creams for me.’  
  
‘In your dreams.’  
  
They walked side by side along the footpath, not bothering to seek shade.  
  
‘I can’t believe there’s still school tomorrow. Junior High’s a nightmare. We’ve got vacs and sick leaves, they ought to give us heat leaves as well,’ the boy nudged Fushimi with an elbow. ‘Lend me the notes from last Friday, will you?’  
  
‘They wouldn’t make much sense to you whether I did or didn’t.’  
  
‘Nah, they wouldn’t. But there’s school tomorrow - ’  
  
‘Cut it.’  
  
‘In the arvo, maybe. But not - ’  
  
‘Cut them all. Isn’t that what you’ve always hoped for?’  
  
The boy choked out a laugh, ‘Sounds like you haven’t a care in the world, Saruhiko. You’re the smart lot, ‘course you’d cut school whenever you like.’  
  
Fushimi stopped. Unaware of it, the boy marched on a good several feet before realising his companion was no longer with him. He paused and turned, looking puzzled.  
  
‘Saruhiko?’  
  
‘Misaki,’  
  
The boy fidgeted a little, ‘I said not to call me that out here, didn’t I? My street cred would be down the drain.’  
  
‘Like you’ve got any to begin with.’ said Fushimi, wrapping insult with affection in a tone that was distinctly his, ‘Cut school tomorrow. I’m serious.’  
  
The boy tilted his head slightly. They looked at each other for a while, across several feet that could be covered by two strides flat. Then the boy came up and sealed the distance, grinning his pumpkin grin.  
  
‘You too, Saruhiko?’  
  
‘Of course. What do you take me for?’  
  
The boy patted Fushimi on the back, ‘Someone too smart for his own good, I reckon. Let’s go that way.’  
  
Fushimi wasn’t used to physical touch, but had learnt to hold down his objections where his friend was concerned, ‘Weren’t we going this way?’  
  
‘We were, but I just realised we could beat it to the game shop that way. Didn’t you see the advert I texted you? That multi shooter that just came out, with the fire-breathing monsters bashing up everything in its way. I’m so totally getting it.’  
  
‘’Cause you fancy yourself breathing fire onto everyone in your way, Misaki.’  
  
‘Oh, shut it.’  
  
‘You do.’  
  
‘I do _not_!’  
  
‘Do too.’  
  
‘Alright, alright. Just onto you then. I’d breathe fire at you until you’re medium rare. Grilled monkey fillet. How’s that for tea? Your shout, of course.’  
  
  
The image dissolved, then swirled and refocused. Fushimi was standing at the entrance to what appeared to be an underground dungeon. And he wasn’t wearing his school outfit anymore.  
  
Fushimi glanced around. He was in an enclosed space that felt like the bottom of a test tube, and the only way out was to enter the dungeon. He was alone and cold and barely able to see a thing save for the dim outline of the dungeon entrance.  
  
He held out his right hand, wishing for light. There was a faint hiss, and a flash of brightness the colour of burning flame. Fushimi looked down at his fingertips: they were glowing bright red, heating up with the intensity of fire, throbbing to the answering pulsation in his left collarbone where a flame-shaped token was etched to his skin. His surroundings now sufficiently lit up, Fushimi entered the dungeon.  
  
It was awful. Even with the warmth of fire, the air in the dungeon was dank and stagnant. The tunnel stretched on and on with no light at the end of it. Fushimi shivered slightly and took out his PDA. The reception diminished with every step he took, so he stopped, holding the PDA in his left hand. The light from the screen cast the left side of his body in glimmering electric blue; he stared at the screen, thinking hard. His usually clear mind was fogged; he didn’t know what to do, and didn’t want to keep going down a tunnel full of things out of the unknown. He had to make a move, to ring someone while there was still reception.  
  
Just as he was about to dial the first number that came to his mind, his PDA vibrated and sent a shiver up his forearm. Fushimi’s fingers tightened as he read the number on the screen. It didn’t belong to the person he was thinking about; but still, it was someone he knew.  
  
He put the PDA to his ear, ‘Yes, Mr Kusanagi?’  
  
‘Fushimi, where are you?’ the usual serenity in Kusanagi’s voice was missing.  
  
‘In a dungeon. I don’t know exactly where.’  
  
‘Is Yata with you?’  
  
‘No,’ Fushimi paused slightly, then finished with a sigh that betrayed little feeling. ‘I’m all alone.’  
  
‘Listen, Fushimi,’ Kusanagi pressed on, sounding urgent, ‘you’ve got to get out of there, wherever you are, that is. Come back to Bar Homra immediately.’  
  
‘Did something happen?’  
  
‘No, everything is fine. Everyone is fine. But I don’t think you are. Can you get back the way you went in?’  
  
Again Fushimi glanced around, ‘I already told you, I’m in a tunnel. There’s no other exit.’  
  
Kusanagi was silent for a disturbingly long moment.  
  
‘I see,’ he said presently, with the air of someone having decided on something definitive. ‘Don’t fret, Fushimi. I’ll get Anna to help. She’ll be able to sense your whereabouts. Stay where you are till I get back to you, please. Take care.’  
  
‘Wait - ’  
  
But Kusanagi had already hung up. Fushimi took one glance at the quickly dimming screen and felt something in the pit of his stomach drop. He put the PDA back to his pocket, stood irresolute for but five seconds, and resumed walking.  
  
Fushimi lost track of how long or how far in he had walked. His last glance at the PDA told him the reception was completely gone. Cut off from the rest of the world, he had to move on all by himself until he reached the end of the tunnel, or die trying.  
  
The fluttering, hissing heat in his right hand was starting to irritate; he wasn’t used to concentrating the Red aura on his hand for so long, and the fire it created was slowly wearing him down, so much so that he had to exercise a considerable amount of energy to keep it from going overboard and roasting him alive.  
  
By now, Fushimi could sense he wasn’t alone in the dungeon. Not completely. The never-ending rustling couldn’t be from his clothes or the fire in his right hand. Sometimes he would stop walking for a little and keep his body still, and the sound would keep coming, faint yet persistent, from the distance and in the direction he was headed.  
  
To think there was someone or something in here with him filled Fushimi with a strange feeling. It was unease mingled with something close to relief and also something else. Something like excitement, the kind of reckless, fear-induced excitement that one gets when sensing an attacker close by. After standing still for a seemingly indefinite moment, Fushimi let the fire in his hand go out and took out his PDA again. The flash of bluish light burst from the screen, bright and blinding. Unlike the red flame, which kept the dark at bay, the bluish light cut right through the dark unknown and lit the distance with a pale beam that overtook the otherwise pitch black surroundings.  
  
Something was moving at the end of the beam. A lump of a person, huddled and shuffling around. Fushimi’s pace quickened. From this end, the light from the PDA couldn’t reveal the person’s face, so he gathered his Red aura and used his will to channel it to his right hand, which shimmered briefly, and then went out again. Fushimi balled up his right hand till the pain eased. He simply couldn’t use his hand as a torch anymore.  
  
He was now a couple of feet from the person. It sensed him, and straightened up. And as it did, its whole frame began to shimmer, just like Fushimi’s hand did when he tried to light it. The person became blurred behind its own flame; it was bright red, and the air around was stirring, making way for the unfamiliar heat.  
  
Fushimi’s heart skipped a beat. _A Red Clansman_?  
  
‘Who goes there?’ the person shouted, coming closer. The light from Fushimi’s PDA collided with the person’s halo of fire and shone against his hair: the colour of the brightest summer sun, dipped in lush autumn red.  
  
‘Misaki?’  
  
YATA Misaki straightened up with a start. For a while he gaped stupidly at Fushimi. He too was not wearing his school outfit anymore, and his looks were even less school-boyish than those of his friend.  
  
Fushimi tried to remember what happened. A lot did since that dreamy, leafy summer afternoon with memories of video games and ice cream-smeared faces. They were both taller, their voices less childlike, and in their bodies resided the same preternatural flame that sealed the sign of allegiance to their skin. Instinctively, Fushimi felt around his left collarbone with his right hand, but the touch grated and drew a gasp of pain from his lips. The patch of skin was raw and bleeding and burnt away. When did that happen?  
  
Yata’s gape was gone, was replaced by a look of hatred so intense it seemed to be hiding some unwanted emotion.  
  
‘Traitor.’  
  
His voice was tremulous with feeling. Fushimi stood nailed to the spot, his ears ringing with the two clanging syllables, and the memory came coursing back to him.  
  
He left the Red Clan and was branded a traitor by his best friend, who now hated him with a vengeance he was hardly capable of showing anyone else.  
  
Hurt was welling up inside Fushimi like nausea. He schooled his face into an expression that he knew Yata was expecting to see, and jeered.  
  
‘Fancy seeing you here, Misaki. Since when did you start to dig your own hidey-hole, may I ask?’  
  
The flame around Yata rose higher till it hit the walls of the tunnel. Above their heads came a loud, cracking sound. If they started a fight, this place would cave in, and they might never get out. They would be caught forever in this morass of hate and broken memories and longing. Just the two of them.  
  
Fushimi realised he still had his knives on him, but there should be something else as well. Another weapon. At his waistband. Where his left hand brushed against a leather belt and the fabric of his jeans.  
  
But it wasn’t there, and seemed to never have been.  
  
It didn’t matter. Before he could react, Yata was on him with a swirl of flame in his wake. The tunnel was thoroughly lit up, and crumbling. Large chunks of concrete rained down their heads. Fushimi felt his body sinking into the debris with Yata weighing down on him. Neither was using their Red aura as they were locked in a tussle not uncommonly found in primary schoolyards. Yata’s fist collided with the side of Fushimi’s jaw, but Fushimi didn’t feel any pain until his own punch caused Yata to cry out, and the pain was where his knuckles hit Yata instead of where Yata had hit him. As he raised his arms to ward off Yata’s retaliating fists, the debris he was lying on gave in and he fell clean through, with Yata staring down open-mouthed, his legs bleeding where the concrete cut deep gashes across his shins and ankles. That was what Fushimi last saw of Yata before closing his eyes, the dizziness of free fall catching up to him at last.  
  
Fushimi fell till his back hit something rock hard. The impact rattled his spine and for a moment he was a wheezing, gasping ball of pain curled in on himself as he shivered and rolled to his side. Then something else fell on him. Something soft and feather light and strangely cuddly. He opened his eyes. The pain was receding.  
  
It was his duvet. And he was lying on the floor of his dorm room in Scepter 4. And it was barely dawn.

  
**†**

  
  
Fushimi sat by the side door to the residential hall, dripping. He had just come out of the shower and found it too painful to lie in bed till his usual wakeup time. Under his shirt, his back was a mass of bruise that bled freely beneath the thin layer of skin, a spatter of crimson and purple against a white canvas.  
  
He couldn’t decide which was more stupid: he, or the dream he had. As per falling from the top bunk, it wasn’t half as bad when it happened last time. He had been woken by the alarm, had thought it was one of Yata’s morning pranks, and had fallen from his bed when a peek at the lower bunk told him they were no longer living in their shared flat.  
  
Fushimi sat very still until he became aware of what he had been watching. Cherry petals were falling, small, pink tokens of an early spring he hadn’t noticed was coming. Was it that time of the year again? Fushimi was not attuned to seasonal changes as a rule, but on this particular morning the first sight of cherry blossoms had caught his attention, had conspired with the lingering fragments of the dream, and was pushing him back down the abyss.  
  
Every year, those cherry trees would blossom for a brief week or two, and then everything would be gone. It was the same with people. They were here this day and were gone the next, regardless of how close they might be. With an involuntary shudder, Fushimi realised what the first half of his dream was trying to convince him.  
  
Back then, he was naive enough to have believed that nothing would come between him and his friend. As much as he hated to admit it after everything that happened, Yata _remained_ his only friend and the only person who once assured him that a smile could be a sign of pure happiness instead of scheming or sarcasm. Their first two years in secondary school had meant the whole world to Fushimi, a world he never imagined he would come to cherish with the companionship of one special person. He was in so deep, he even allowed himself the illusion that things as they were would never change. Sure enough, their encounter with the Red King wasn’t the end of everything; rather, it was the beginning of a gradual downfall that started with loosing things up at the edge and then shattering it to pieces as the decline gathered momentum.  
  
After their fallout, Fushimi wondered why he hadn’t realised earlier that it was bound to happen. That way he could have backed off before it was too late. He should have known what sort of person Yata was. He did at the very beginning, but as their relationship grew, the awareness and the accompanying sense of foreboding faded into oblivion as Fushimi learnt to let his guard down. Yata was a follower who had to look up to someone that possessed something he himself didn’t, whether it was intellect, or brutal strength, or power of an unworldly magnitude. Fushimi had the first, and the Red King the rest on top of everything else. It was a losing battle not even worth fighting. There was no way he could win Yata back, so he threw over their relationship and watched their little world crumble into ruin at his feet, relieved at taking even this tiny bit of initiative.  
  
Several of the pink cherry petals fluttered down around Fushimi. He watched them gather, unmoved. Last time he saw them, he had been with Yata and Yata’s gang at Homra. That was one year ago; it was another life.  
  
Muffled voices could be heard in the nearest dorm room. People were waking up to a new day of work, and quibbling. Fushimi got to his feet, wincing slightly when the movement agitated his bruised back. For the first time since he joined Scepter 4, Fushimi was grateful that the dark uniform was able to conceal pretty much every manner of bodily injury. As soon as he put it on, it would tricked him into believing that he was all right. It had to; he pinned his hopes on it.  
  
He did not notice the figure standing motionless and half-hidden behind the nearest cherry tree. The figure was tall and slender, wearing a long garment with a hem that rippled to the rustling breeze. As Fushimi turned to leave, the first of the morning sun parted the clouds and penetrated the shade beneath the cherry trees. The figure stepped out into the light, nonchalant and graceful.  
  
Munakata watched Fushimi’s retreating back, where the bruise showed through the damp, white shirt like an unbecoming splash over an otherwise refined painting.  
 

**†**

  
  
Hidaka rooted through his wardrobe with a look of concentrated bemusement on his face. At his feet lay a particularly messy pile of laundry, its content ranging from spare socks to spare pyjamas to the spare set of his uniform waistcoat.  
  
‘Did you see my T-shirt, Goto?’  
  
The pile of laundry wiggled, ‘Which one?’  
  
‘The grey one with birds on the front and the words “It’s the season!”.’  
  
The pile of laundry collapsed. Goto’s upper torso emerged with a pair of flannels around his head like a turban.  
  
‘Are you going birdwatching on your day off?’  
   
‘Sod it, Goto. You’ve no sense of subtlety.’  
  
Hidaka turned with the intent to glare, but changed his mind when the scene outside the window caught him. ‘It’s cherry blossom season again. I’m going for a walk around the premises. And to do that, I need my seasonal outfit.’  
  
Goto extricated himself from the laundry dump, ‘Like that’s the only reason you got up at five. Not sleeping in on your day off is against the law. And causing your roommate to not sleep in on his day off is an unpardonable crime against humanity.’  
  
‘And mixing up two people’s clean and dirty laundry warrants a life behind bars, tried or not,’ said Hidaka, giving up his T-shirt hunt and putting on a black hoodie he just spotted hanging off the wardrobe door.  
  
Goto was getting to his feet, was halfway between crouching and standing when his feet got tangled in a pair of pyjama bottoms. Falling with a yelp, the yelp became muffled when he received a mouthful of what appeared to be a particularly wrinkly bath towel.  
  
‘Coming?’ said Hidaka again, now fully dressed.  
  
‘Oait ‘ll ‘ee’o’!’  
  
‘What?’  
  
Goto spat and wiped his mouth, looking livid.  
  
‘Wait, you idiot! Why am I sorting out this mess again?!’  
  
‘’Cause I’m going for a walk and you aren’t.’  
  
Hidaka closed the door with a bang and galloped down the staircase.  
  
  
He met Enomoto and Fuse on the ground floor, where the two just came out of the cafeteria, looking sleep-deprived.  
  
‘Morning, lads!’  
  
To return the courtesy, Enomoto yawned over his coffee, and Fuse scowled, ‘Do I look like I need a big muppet on his day off to hail me into wakefulness at such an hour?’  
  
Hidaka grinned and clapped Fuse on the shoulder, ‘I see you two are on the morning shift.’  
  
‘I see you aren’t,’ Fuse scowled at Hidaka from head to foot as though his every inch was an eyesore. ‘Why are you up so early when you don't have to? It’s obscene.’  
  
‘I’m up for a walk and the cherry blossoms.’  
  
Enomoto swallowed a large mouthful of overly creamy coffee, ‘Cherry blossoms?’  
  
‘Yep. Don’t tell me you guys haven’t noticed? It’s rather early this year. No complaints, though.’  
  
Enomoto and Fuse looked across the outdoor training field where the trees were planted. Some were cherry trees and were sporting traces of pink amid the bare branches.  
  
‘It is early. I swear it wasn’t there last week.’  
  
‘Well, why don’t you two come join me when you are done with your shift? Those flowers don’t last very long, so we better look our fill before they are gone.’  
  
Enomoto shrugged, ‘I’m okay with missing a season or two.’  
  
Fuse crossed his arms, ‘You should go invite the Captain. The Captain loves that sort of thing.’  
  
‘The Captain, having a walk and looking at cherry blossoms?’  
  
‘Yeh, I saw him strolling around the place when I was on morning shifts before.’  
  
Hidaka thought hard. The revelation that the Captain was seen doing anything other than work was incredible.  
  
‘You reckon he might still be out, as in, right now, this morning?’  
  
‘Very likely. It’s not yet six,’ Fuse lowered his voice mysteriously. ‘And my sixth sense tells me the Captain never sleeps. So he just spends the nights on his feet like a zombie.’  
  
Enomoto choked on the last bit of his coffee. Hidaka patted him on the back, sighing, ’All this rubbish about sixth sense. Are you a woman?’  
  
It amazed Hidaka that Fuse still had the decency to look serious, even solemn. Maybe his punchline was yet to come.  
  
‘Either the Captain’s a closet zombie, or he works when he’s walking,’ said Fuse, ‘you know, like a multitasking sort of thing. Fushimi’s with him a lot. That’d keep the Captain lively.’  
  
The punchline felt more like a wallop to the back of the head. Hidaka stared.  
  
‘How d’you know that?’  
  
‘What? Everyone knows how close they are. Nobody’s seen the Captain alone with anyone apart from Fushimi,’ said Fuse, unfazed by Enomoto, who choked again and was turning purple. ‘Surely you guys heard what Mr Kamo said the other day, did you? Captain Munakata took Fushimi to Nanakamado on business, and came back telling Mr Kamo not to spread it around.’  
  
Hidaka did hear. That was when it was still rather cold. Mr Kamo came back one dreary and foggy afternoon with the news that Fushimi went to Nanakamado with the Captain and that the Captain came back without him. Mr Kamo also mentioned something along the lines of ‘fix the intranet’. Not that it made any sense to Hidaka, anyway. But Hidaka did remember the serious and earnest look on Mr Kamo’s face when he said it. Unaware that Kamo had a habit of looking serious and earnest whatever he talked about and whomever he talked to, Hidaka thought the news was a grave one, and still remembered the wide-eyed look on his Swords Four friends’ faces as everyone gathered in a circle trying to make out what the news meant. _Fushimi went to Nanakamado with the Captain. Just the two of them_ …  
  
‘Perhaps they both had work to do at Nanakamado,’ Enomoto cut in, still bluish purple in the face from two bouts of near suffocation. ‘Please, Fuse, I do remember what Mr Kamo said and it’s nothing like what you cooked up. I don’t think the Captain favours Fushimi in any way. It’s just not on.’  
  
Fuse shrugged, ‘Whatever. You can’t deny they are closer than, say, you and the Captain.’  
  
Hidaka grabbed both Enomoto and Fuse by the shoulder and began steering them out.  
  
‘That’s enough. You two want to be in the office before you are totally late,’ he said in an airy voice. ‘I remember you said Fushimi hurt himself for fun, so the Captain was probably telling him not to do it. They are just two slightly weird blokes hitting it off, if you ask me.’  
  
The cherry trees were behind the office building, so Hidaka went the same way. The three of them passed the training field, jostling. Then Hidaka’s eyes fell on the other side of the office building, and he stopped, causing Enomoto to bump into him and Fuse to bump into Enomoto.  
  
‘Hey, watch out!’  
  
‘Whatcha- ouch!’  
  
Captain Munakata was standing near a cherry tree, half concealed by the building, which, however, did not conceal the slightly smaller figure next to him. Both were in their full uniforms.  
  
‘Look, it’s the Captain and Fushimi!’  
  
The words came cascading out before Hidaka could decide whether they might have any effect on what they had been discussing. Then he felt hands on his back, pushing, prising, scrunching.  
  
‘You are a wall, you know that? Get out of the way!’  
  
‘Who’s with _whom_?’  
  
‘Ow! Stop it!’  
  
Hidaka staggered aside, wincing. Enomoto and Fuse came up. Hidaka was sure they were looking at what he had been looking at. It was nothing, just the Captain talking to Fushimi and Fushimi listening (or sulking and pretending to listen).  
  
‘Hey, wipe that scandalised look off your face, you two. What’s the matter?’  
  
Fuse threw Hidaka a look that screamed you-are-one-big-blooming-retard in capital letters.  
  
‘Wonder what they are talking about? They are standing there shoulder to shoulder. What do people talk about when they are shoulder to shoulder ‘stead of face to face?’  
  
‘They’re talking shop. They’ve got to,’ Enomoto’s voice was slightly higher than usual.  
  
Hidaka thought for a moment, ‘I don’t think it matters, really. The Captain can honeymoon with Fushimi as much as he likes. No big deal.’  
  
He scratched his head as Enomoto and Fuse choked simultaneously.    
  
‘You two need a drink or something?’

  
**†**

  
  
Shortly after seven o’ clock, Zenjo locked the training room with a spare key. The morning wind was getting warmer; Zenjo stood at the doorway until the sweat dried on his face. He would go for a shower after he had returned the keys.  
  
Zenjo lumbered down the deserted corridor. His muscles were sore with the night’s training, and for the first time in ten years, he noticed and was slightly surprised at the way his sword hung at his coat and weighed down the left half of his body.  
  
He wasn’t entirely sure why he had started training again. That sporadic view to Awashima’s training session had unlocked a part of him that he had once succeeded in subduing. The days of training and dreaming were over for him; that was his conviction when he agreed to work for the present Blue King. But now, he was wielding his sword again, albeit merely in the dead of night and with no one to train with. Such a twist of fate.  
  
He entered the file room and hung the keys at the little hook by the door. The morning sun was streaming in through the window. He walked past shelves of documents till he was at his desk. The tabby would be there as well. Its health wouldn’t allow it to be anywhere else, let alone venture outside to hunt its breakfast.  
  
Zenjo pulled back his chair and sank into it with a sigh. The tabby lay curled up at his feet, not moving. It didn’t seem to be sleeping, either. Zenjo bent closer and touched its neck. His hand brushed against the soft fur, touching the unnaturally stiff muscle. He moved his fingers to the tabby’s nose, and waited.  
  
It was not breathing.  
  
For a moment Zenjo sat very still. Then he squeezed his hand between the floor and the tabby’s body and picked it up. With a gait heavier than before, he left the office, cradling the frail little body to his stomach. There were cherry trees outside; the soil would be warm and soft and covered with the first fallen petals of the year.  
  
Zenjo didn’t think he even needed a shovel for what he had to do.  
  
Yet there was one thought that lingered, and in the depth of it a gentle pulsation that tugged at his heart with a gnawing physical pain.  
  
No one would be there to share his canned sardines at lunch anymore.

* * *

  
  
  
  
**A/N** : sorry about the big chunk of SaruMi angst (and also the tabby’s death). It’s fun to write but a pain to crawl through once it’s written (for me at least…) Also the tabby is a fan plot and not Zenjo’s current cat which is a black kitten he adopted after the climatic scene in K SIDE:BLUE. I’ll tie that in later.


	9. 'Tis the Steed without a Knight

  
_‘Round-hoof’d, short-jointed, fetlocks shag and long,_   
_Broad breast, full eye, small head, and nostril wide,_   
_High crest, short ears, straight legs and passing strong,_   
_Thin mane, thick tail, broad buttock, tender hide;_   
_Look, what a horse should have he did not lack,_   
_Save a proud rider on so proud a back.’_   
  
_(Shakespeare - ‘Venus and Adonis’)_   
  


  
‘Did something happen, Fushimi?’  
  
‘No. Why?’  
  
‘I am not by necessity obliged to divulge the reason behind the guesswork, am I?’  
  
Fushimi clicked his tongue. This conversion did not bode well. As far as he could tell, Munakata had an annoying knack for hiding less-than-comprehensible subtexts behind otherwise perfectly comprehensible pleasantries.   
  
‘Then why did you ask me in the first place?’  
  
‘Why, indeed? Depending on the context, words for greeting can be plentiful, but with you, the choice is usually limited.’  
  
‘If you’re here to lecture me on things that are out of my depth, sir, I’m off.’  
  
They were standing side by side near the office building. Fushimi had his eyes glued on the nearest cherry tree, and somehow hoped Munakata was doing the same - especially after what he had blurted out without so much as a second thought, which he was now regretting a little without understanding why. He hated the way Munakata seemed to materialise right before his eyes every time he was feeling down, or trapped, or in any case not quite himself. It didn’t help, because having Munakata here didn’t guarantee he would talk about anything that remotely resembled comfort. All it did was distract Fushimi and break down his erstwhile train of thought, whatever said train of thought might contain.  
  
Fushimi waited for a retort. Maybe not an explicit retort, but more of a comeback wrapped in the sort of impassiveness that stung when he wasn’t noticing. But there was nothing. Knowing Munakata, Fushimi was sure he was holding back because he could tell Fushimi wanted a response. Tired of the mind game, Fushimi turned to leave. The movement caused a twinge in his bruised shoulder blades; the ghost of the dream was hovering over him again.  
  
‘I got wind of a Strain attack at midnight,’ said Munakata out of the blue. Fushimi stopped; the dream vanished.  
  
‘Had you better inform Lieutenant Awashima first?’  
  
‘The damage appears to be minimal,’ there was a hint of smile in Munakata’s voice. ‘As a matter of fact, the case requires more of a private investigation than emergency dispatch.’  
  
‘What’s the case about?’  
  
As if sensing Fushimi’s eyes on his back, Munakata turned.  
  
‘I have yet to receive intel from Mr Domyoji.’  
  
Fushimi clicked his tongue again. Domyoji being in charge meant a hell lot of trouble when it came to drafting the post-investigation report. Being someone on the receiving - and often less-than-willing editing - end of those reports, Fushimi felt compelled to act.  
  
‘You want me to contact him, sir?’  
  
Fushimi knew he lost the game the moment he finished speaking, because the smile Munakata gave him had turned appreciative to the point of affectionate. It was the smile of a winner showing benevolence in his triumph.  
  
‘I will be counting on you, then.’

  
  
  
**†**

  
Domyoji swiped his work pass with a flourish, watching the ticket machine flash green with a beep. He bounced down the aisle and claimed a seat near the back of the tram, avoiding the mass of sleepy-looking students towards the front.  
  
He wished Captain Munakata had told him more about the investigation. For a change, it sounded fun; he was to take public transport out of town and to a farm, where the incident took place. And Captain Munakata had sounded rather lighthearted when he said it. Domyoji wondered what it was all about. He had never been to a farm, but he remembered reading about them when he was younger. You get all sorts of animals on a farm and everyone lives there happily thereafter. That sort of thing. How could a Strain attack took place on a farm?   
  
He glanced up. All around him, people had their noses buried in their PDAs or their morning papers, barely noticing him. His disguise had worked. He wasn’t wearing his uniform; he had formulated for himself that he was on an undercover mission, and unconcerned parties could all stand back and watch him shine after he had aced it.  
  
Domyoji disembarked when the navigator on his PDA told him to. Throwing Greater Tokyo behind, the country stretched before him like a vast green carpet. Rice fields were around him, with a scarecrow here and there, looking so funny that Domyoji had to stop and laugh till his belly hurt. One of the scarecrows had a coconut for a head and what appeared to be a mop of horse mane around the neck. When the wind came, the mop would get tossed back just like a horse tossed its head as it galloped across the glen. Domyoji remembered seeing pictures like that in storybooks when he was at primary school.  
  
‘Wouldn’t scare me off if I were a bird.’  
  
Domyoji pulled a face at the coconut scarecrow before strolling on.   
  
He arrived at the farm shortly before eight o’ clock. The words on a wooden plaque by the road told him he had to go deeper. He came off the main road and began wading his way through vegetation that crept up his shins. To his right, a herd of cows were grazing. Intrigued, he made mooing sounds at them, and they mooed back, lazily and without interest.   
  
‘This doesn’t look like the sort of place a Strain would muck around at.’  
  
The cows answered by turning their hindquarters on Domyoji.   
  
There was a hut behind the paddock. The ground around it was clean, dry, and without grass. Domyoji wiped his shoes on it and saw suspicious brown stripes against the pale sand.  
  
‘Eew. All that muck from those cows.’  
  
A girl was sitting on the porch, rinsing a milk pail with gloved hands and water from a garden hose. Domyoji approached her, produced his work pass, and introduced himself.  
  
‘So I’m here to investigate the attack … if there’s any,’ he added as an afterthought. This was looking less and less like a crime scene.  
  
The girl’s reaction confirmed it. At Domyoji’s words, the look on her face became a mixture of fluster and bemusement.  
  
‘If you are talking about someone breaking in at night, the answer is no,’ she paused. ‘What’s a Strain, anyway?’  
  
Domyoji realised he had taken it for granted that everyone involved in a Strain case would understand what a Strain was.  
  
‘A Strain is usually someone who’s got strange abilities.’ he began, ‘Usually when you fall down, you’d sprain your ankle or something, but a Strain could just fly off or do some other weird stuff so they wouldn’t get hurt like normal people.’  
  
He could tell by the look on the girl’s face that he had lost her yet again. Maybe he was on the wrong farm. He thought for a moment and decided to ask if there was another farm in the area, but the girl piped up.  
  
‘Not a person, no. But my horse’s been a bit funny lately.’  
  
‘Your horse?’  
  
‘Yes. He’s, well, he’s grown a lot, but he’s still a foal, anyway, and he’s always a bit more bouncy than the others ever since he was born. I looked after him. Sweet little boy he is. But he’s been acting strange for a while now,’ the girl looked troubled. ‘My dad sent him away, because now that I’m getting married there won’t be anyone who wants him here any longer. I wish he didn’t have to go.’  
  
‘The horse’s acting strange? in what way?’  
  
‘Well, he stands up on his hind legs a lot, and when he does that you could see wings on his back and he’d turn from light chestnut to snowy white. And then he would flap his wings and charge. He can’t fly, of course, but he does leap higher than a normal horse when he sprouts wings.’  
  
Domyoji wasn’t sure if animals could be Strains, but he had to agree what the horse could do didn’t sound the least bit normal. Maybe the horse was a Strain, or had fallen victim to a Strain person.  
  
‘Where did your dad send him?’  
  
‘To someone at the market. Sold at a smashing price. We’ve a farmers’ market every Sunday. By now he’s probably ended up in a zoo or a circus, I don’t know,’ the girl sounded crestfallen. ‘He’s my favourite horse.’  
  
Domyoji bit his lip and thought hard. Strain or not, the horse was the key to everything, and he had to get his hands on it before he could make another move. He turned to the girl again.  
  
‘It’s my responsibility to sort things out. I need to track down the horse and everyone involved in the purchase. Could you please give me your dad’s contact details?’  
  
Domyoji spent the morning ringing people on his PDA until the battery was dead. He contacted the girl’s father, who owned the farm, and got a description of the horse dealer from the Sunday market a week ago. He then went to the local council and got a list of all the dealers who had traded horses at that specific weekend. There weren’t many; he was in luck. His search was then narrowed down to two people: one sold half a dozen colts to a sushi chain in a neighbouring prefecture, and another bought a foal and sold it to the local police complex claiming it would make a fine police horse. What roused Domyoji’s suspicion was that the second dealer was unregistered. All farmers and dealers who participated in the Sunday market had to register their produce as a means of quality assurance, and on top of that they had to provide their contact details in case there was a customer complaint. Domyoji searched the records on the unregistered dealer, but nothing came up.  
  
By now, Domyoji was thoroughly convinced that this mysterious dealer was a Strain and the horse a victim. As his PDA had run out of battery, he had to pay an impromptu visit to the local police complex and check if the horse was really there.    
  
Luckily for him, the complex was not far from the local council. Domyoji sneaked in from the back and found himself in a makeshift barn. It smelt of zoo and manure. Domyoji wrinkled his nose and went closer.  
  
A horse was tethered to a pole, looking peaceful. It was larger and stockier than a fully-grown pony, but not much, and there were streaks of dry mud on its otherwise smooth neck. It was pale chestnut with fine, black mane flecked with chocolate-brown highlights, which matched the farm girl’s description. Domyoji stood in front of it.  
  
‘Well, all I have to do is check if you’re a Strain, though I doubt it,’ said Domyoji, more to the horse than to himself. Then he realised he didn’t really know how to check. All Strains were not the same; what kind of ability could a horse have?  
  
Domyoji stretched out a hand and, not sure what to do, stroked the horse’s left ear like a dog’s. The horse snorted and tossed its head, and fixed Domyoji with a look that Domyoji was prone to getting when Kamo caught him with his hands in the cookie jar. Or in the wine cellar, in their case.  
  
Domyoji bounced back, annoyed at the recognition, ‘Hey, don’t you look at me like that!’  
  
The horse continued to look. Domyoji leant in a second time, ‘Are you a Strain or not?’  
  
Another look.  
  
‘You’re under interrogation! I’m asking you, are you a Strain or not?’  
  
The horse reared up, causing Domyoji to fall on his hips in his haste to back off.  
  
‘What was that for!?’  
  
He scrambled to his feet, but the horse had stopped paying attention to him and was now nudging against the pole it was tethered to.  
  
Domyoji decided to have another go before calling on people at the complex. He approached the horse from the side and snapped his fingers rather ostentatiously. The horse was looking at him again. The farm girl had said it was her favourite. Maybe the horse could understand human words just like a dog could. Maybe a bit of buddying up would do the trick.  
  
‘Oi, Master Four-Legs. Nice weather, isn’t it? How long have you been here?’  
  
The horse was now nibbling on the tether. The way it peered at Domyoji might well suggest Domyoji was nothing but a slab of bark it had kicked away mid-canter. Domyoji sighed. Strain or not, the horse had to be taken all the way back to Scepter 4 Headquarters for further examination.  
  
‘Stupid brumby,’ he muttered under his breath.  
  
The horse snorted and nickered loudly and brandished its hooves at Domyoji.  
  
‘All right, all right, you win, Your Snortiness!’  
  


  
It was mid afternoon when a van pulled up at Scepter 4 Headquarters. People wearing a yellow jacket with the words Animal Transit on the back jumped out and opened the back door. The last to jump out was Domyoji.   
  
‘Right here, sir?’  
  
Domyoji yawned out a yes. The horse came out of the van and was led with what appeared to be a metal chain attached to an extra large dog collar around the upper end of its neck.  
  
Domyoji took hold of the makeshift tether and watched till the van went out of sight. Then he began to walk in, the horse clip-clopping meekly behind him. Before the journey back home, an animal transit worker had put sedative in a carrot stick and stuck it between the horse’s teeth. Obviously the drug hadn’t worn off.  
  
‘Now I’ve got to ask the Captain to come have a look. Nobody else could tell if you’re a Strain. You can’t even tell if you are a Strain, you big knob.’  
  
A few people stared at Domyoji and the horse. There was no stable on Scepter 4’s premises. Domyoji fastened the tether to a tree next to the office building and went to the Captain’s Office.

  
**†**   
  


KAMO Ryuho tossed his training outfit in the laundry basket and scowled. Bang. Bang. Bang. The noise had been going on for what felt like ages. It was right outside his window, somewhere between the residential hall and the garage. He was not informed of any impromptu construction work either on or around the premises. It must be a prank from someone.  
  
‘Better not be who I fear it is.’  
  
Kamo put on a clean shirt before leaning over the windowsill. The sight was self-explanatory if a little bizarre. There was a pile of hay and a stash of wooden planks piled high near the open area behind the building, and next to it a horse, tethered to a post that looked strangely familiar. Kamo squinted hard until he recognised what it was: it was a sabre, kept upright with the blade thrust down the soil.  Between the sabre and the planks was Domyoji, banging a hammer on something with the intensity of a woodpecker, albeit without the velocity.  
  
‘Domyoji!’  
  
Domyoji paused mid-banging, caught Kamo’s eye, and visibly perked up.  
  
‘Come quick, Mr Kamo!’  
  
The banging was getting on Kamo’s nerves. Meaning to put a stop to it, he ran out.  
  
‘I’m here to put a stop to it!’  
  
‘To what?’  
  
Kamo flung both arms in the air, ‘The noise! What are you doing that for? Wait till everyone comes back from work and you’ll be dead in a jiffy!’  
   
Domyoji smeared sweat off his forehead, which was caked with dried mud, ‘Well, this is work for me. I’m building a stable for the stupid brumby over there.’  
  
Kamo looked at the horse. It glanced up his way, seemed disappointed at the lack of food items on his person, and bent its head to the ground again.  
  
‘How come you’ve got a - hang on, did you nick it from someone so you could sell it off and use the money to buy sweets?’  
  
‘Hey, I’m not that pathetic!’  
  
To prove his claim, Domyoji got up, forgot where his feet were, and dropped the hammer on them with a howl of agony.  
  
Kamo grimaced at a writhing Domyoji before bending over to stroke the horse on the mane. It rubbed against him affectionately.  
  
‘Hands off, Mr Kamo!’  
  
‘What?’  
  
‘I said hands off. That horse’s dangerous. Gives you a good old kick when your back’s turned,’ Domyoji managed to sit up straight, clutching his feet and sounding a bit tearful, probably due to the impact from the hammer.  
  
‘Not until you explain just what’s been going on.’  
  
‘Oh, all right,’ said Domyoji. ‘I brought the horse from the country. The Captain said there was this crime case involving a Strain and sent me to investigate, but it turned out to be a minor one. The horse was sent away when it became a Strain and a bother to people on the farm, so now it’s ours.’  
  
‘A Strain? This horse?’  
  
‘Yes, I asked the Captain to come have a look ‘cause I wasn’t sure. He said it was, and said I had to build a home for it,’ said Domyoji bitterly, ‘he said I had to, because I didn’t pick up Fushimi’s calls the whole morning. Like I’m to blame! I was pretty much on the phone till lunchtime and then the battery died on me!’  
  
Kamo looked at Domyoji’s tearful eyes and fought down the urge to laugh.  
  
‘Want a hand?’  
  
‘Yes, please! The Captain also said I’ve got to finish the investigation report by midnight. What’s there to report on? The great and mighty adventure of me landing a Strain horse and then building a stable?’  
  
‘Sounds all right to me,’ Kamo came forward and picked up the hammer. ‘Are you even sure you’re nailing on the right spot?’  
  
They worked in silence save for the rhythmic banging as they secured the nails where the threshold of the entrance would be laid. Kamo wanted to round off the corners and keep it snug, but Domyoji insisted they build a row of separate cubicles with a fence gate for each.  
  
‘What’s that for? There’s only one horse.’  
  
‘One at the moment,’ Domyoji grumbled. ‘The Captain said one was the start of many, or something equally insane. If we built a stable we might as well build a big one.’  
  
Kamo went to get more timber.  
  
‘Animals very rarely become Strains,’ he said. ‘It’s practically unheard of.’  
  
‘It was.’  
  
‘I wonder how it happened?’  
  
Domyoji threw a begrudged look where the horse was, ‘Don’t ask me. I asked the Captain if he could detect what kind of ability the colt had, and the Captain said one of them is that it understands humans better than most animals.’  
  
‘You said it came from a farm?’  
  
‘Yes.’  
  
Kamo remembered how the horse rubbed against him when petted, ‘He’s quite affectionate. Maybe he’ll let you ride him if you are good.’  
  
‘Why would I ride him? I bet he’s not even schooled. He’d toss everyone up the Milky Way.’  
  
Kamo was in a rare mood for teasing, ‘Well, every knight has to ride a steed into battle and rescue his pretty damsel in distress.’  
  
‘I’d fight a thousand battles if you found me a damsel in anything,’ Domyoji pouted, ‘but you forgot we are just a flock of sad, single, dejected and lovesick blokes working and living together within disturbingly close proximity and with no chance of ever landing a girl.’  
  
Kamo sobered up. He was reminded of his rickety marriage and was suddenly desperate to change the subject.  
  
‘Let’s get this done before tea.’

  
**†**   
  


Despite Kamo’s best intentions, the stable was not done before tea. When teatime rolled around, Kamo abandoned a starved-looking Domyoji and went to the cafeteria. Domyoji toiled alone in the dark, with his PDA balanced rather precariously on top of his head as a torch. Four feet from him, the horse was getting restless and began chewing its tether again.  
  
‘Shut it!’  
  
The horse stopped, and then resumed the moment Domyoji’s back was turned.  
  
‘Oh, damn it all.’  
  
Domyoji laid another plank on a gate and nailed it down. His PDA fell from his head, hit him on the nose, slid to the loose hay scattered across his feet, and went out. Domyoji dropped the hammer and threw himself on the ground, his stomach churning from a mixture of hunger and exertion. The horse slunk near and licked the side of his face.  
  
‘Piss off, horse. I’ve no food for you.’  
  
‘I have.’  
  
Domyoji sat up so fast his head was swimming.  
  
‘Mr Kamo?’  
  
Kamo came forward, treading on hay, two paper bags in one hand and a torch in the other. The horse sniffed the air like a puppy.  
  
‘Here.’  
  
Kamo put the torch on the half-finished stable gate and handed the larger of the two bags to Domyoji, who tore it open with a whistle before freezing over.  
  
‘Carrot sticks?’  
  
‘What?’  
  
Domyoji took out one, ‘You brought me carrot sticks for tea?’  
  
The torchlight didn’t quite cover Domyoji. Kamo came up until his face was inches from Domyoji’s outstretched hand. Then he snatched the carrot stick away.  
  
‘Hey!’  
  
‘Sorry, I got mixed up. That bag’s for the horse. This smaller bag is for you.’  
  
Kamo turned to find the smaller bag on the hay and the horse’s snout in it. The aroma of hot buttered pancakes filled the air. Kamo pushed the horse on the face until it backed off with a disgruntled snort, and retrieved the bag, which was already close to empty.  
  
Domyoji was sprawled on the ground, gnawing a corn on the cob from the bigger bag that lay on his stomach. He appeared to have resigned to his fate.  
  
‘Mr Kamo?’  
  
‘Yes?’ Kamo said quickly, keen to compensate.  
  
‘How long till I’m done with the stable?’  
  
Kamo took the torch and looked carefully at the object in question.  
  
‘It’s starting to look like a stable now,’ he said. ‘I’d say you are almost there once the roof is on.’  
  
‘How am I gonna roof it over?’  
  
‘You can use the hay. It won’t cave in unless it gets rained on, and while it lasts you can get tiles and do a proper roof.’  
  
Domyoji whined and threw the half-chewed cob at the horse, who caught it between its teeth and gobbled it down.  
  
‘Mr Kamo?’  
  
‘What now?’  
  
‘Can you do the investigation report for me?’  
  
Domyoji sounded so dejected and puppy-doggish that Kamo felt something inside him crack and melt against his better judgement. He struggled to recall if seeing his daughter as infrequently as he did had the same effect.  
  
‘When’s the deadline again?’  
  
‘Midnight. Please insert a note to the Captain saying I’ll probably die building this here stable, all for the well-being of his gallant steed.’  
  
‘You’re not thinking about working overnight, are you? The noise would kill me first.’  
  
‘All that’s left is roofing,’ chanted Domyoji in a hollow voice. ‘All you may hear is the sound of yours truly, hauling hay and bemoaning his impending doom.’  
  
Domyoji didn’t sit up until Kamo had left. At least he was spared the trauma of having to write an investigation report and then getting phone calls from Fushimi harassing him into rewriting it. Why did Fushimi ring him during the day, anyway? If it hadn’t been for Fushimi, the Captain would never have suspected him of slacking off during work and he would never have to build this stupid stable all by himself.   
  
He put a carrot stick in his mouth like a cigarette, and started work again.  
  


  
**†**

  
The early hours of the morning saw Domyoji standing between the stable and the horse, straining the tether with all his might while the horse refused to budge. Domyoji’s hair resembled the inside of a hencoop, and his face was haggard as though he had not slept a wink for days on end.  
  
‘I said move it, you stupid brumby! _Move_!’  
  
Domyoji dug one foot in the softish hay and pulled again. The horse stood its ground and snorted agitatedly, tossing its head and tugging at the other end of the tether.  
  
Domyoji sank on his haunches, panting. When he got up again, the horse had picked up the tether between its teeth like a dog chewing on its own collar, ready to walk itself.  
  
‘Give it back and get in the stable this instant!’  
  
Domyoji gripped his sabre. He didn’t want to do this, but the horse left him no alternatives. For a whole hour he had tried sweet-talking, wheedling, grovelling, browbeating, explicit bullying, and feigned whipping (using a long twig in lieu of his belt), and the horse just would not enter the newly-built stable.   
  
The muscles on the horse’s back rippled with tension as it eyed the sabre. Domyoji’s temper was running out; he had a training to attend in the morning and another training to supervise in the afternoon. He couldn’t spend the whole stupid day coaxing a stupid horse into relocation, albeit said relocation merely involved moving three feet from where the horse was to the nearest cabin of the four-cabin stable.  
  
Sabre in hand, Domyoji strode forward till he was inches from the horse. Without warning, the horse reared up with a screeching neigh and struck Domyoji squarely in the face. It watched Domyoji fly across the yard and fall against the side of a building in a heap, then galloped away.

  
  
**†**

  
AWASHIMA Seri woke with a start. Something heavy and solid had just clashed against the wall to her room from the outside. She sprang from her bed and grabbed her sabre. The dorm was quiet save for the loud thumping of her heart. She decided against raising an alarm, and ran out of the room, putting on a jumper over her tank top as she went.  
  
She paused in the backyard between the residential hall and the garage. The stable - approved by the Captain - had been built and appeared perfectly inhabitable, but a peek inside told her the horse they were supposed to be in charge of was not there. There was loose hay scattered across the ground outside the stable, and on top of the hay was a sabre. Awashima picked it up; the hilt was still warm. Annoyed that someone had drawn their sword under a clearly non-combat situation, Awashima made a mental note to make the person write a letter of apology when she caught him. Then she saw someone lying at the foot of the residential building. She went closer.  
  
It was Domyoji. His clothes were crumpled, and there was a hoof-shaped bruise on his face. Awashima checked the bruise carefully, then shook Domyoji by the shoulder. Domyoji came to with a groan, and rubbed the back of his head where it had hit the wall. When his eyes focused on Awashima, he shrank back with a yelp and banged his head again.  
  
‘Ma’am!’  
  
‘It’s okay. I know what happened.’  
  
‘Y-You do?’  
  
Awashima didn’t elaborate. Anyone could tell what had happened by looking at the evidences.  
  
‘I was under the impression that Captain Munakata ordered you to build a stable for the Strain horse that came under custody yesterday?’  
  
‘Yes, ma’am.’  
  
‘Well, you are out of luck, Domyoji. The horse has disappeared.’  
  
Domyoji rose, wincing a little. Awashima handed him his sabre.  
  
‘I’ll bring it back wherever it is, ma’am!’  
  
Awashima fixed him with a stern look, ‘This will be your responsibility in every aspect. Go change into your uniform and off with it!’  
  
‘Yes, ma’am!’  
  
‘Wait!’  
  
Domyoji staggered to a halt and turned to Awashima with a look of nervous supplication.  
  
‘Anything else, ma’am?’  
  
‘Slight correction. Go change into your uniform and come back here. Wait until I get someone else to go with you.’  
  
If Domyoji felt reluctant about the arrangement he did not show it.  
  
‘Yes, ma’am.’  
  
Domyoji did not just change into his uniform. In less than ten minutes he showered, downed a can of latte, and even condescended to thrust his face in front of the bathroom mirror to check if everything was all right. It was. Apart from the bruise, that is. Leaving the top button on his shirt undone because it fit Domyoji’s Definition of Looking Perfectly Professional and Presentable, he sprinted out of the bathroom at top speed and, for the second time in half an hour, felt himself collide heavily against something. Except that this something felt rather soft around the edges and cried out and fell beneath him.  
  
‘What - ?!’  
  
Domyoji stared down at Akiyama’s wide-eyed face barely inches from his own. When he recognised who it was, he scrambled off (eliciting another cry when his knees dug into Akiyama’s thigh) and held out a hand.  
  
‘Sorry. Didn’t look.’  
  
Akiyama allowed himself to be pulled to his feet, ‘Lieutenant Awashima was right.’ he said with a slight grimace.  
  
‘What?’  
  
Akiyama dusted the front of his uniform, ‘I was sent by Lieutenant Awashima to come with you. She said you let loose a Strain horse.’ Then he noticed the hoof-shaped bruise on Domyoji’s face and a corner of his mouth quirked, which unfortunately failed to escape Domyoji’s notice.  
  
‘You can laugh how much you want,’ said Domyoji, pointing at his own face. ‘This,’ he stressed, ‘is the proof of what the brumby is capable of inflicting, Mr Akiyama. You’ve signed up for a mission of unprecedented danger. And you shall not go unarmed. The Captain’s vicious and beastly steed has yet to witness the wrath of a charging knight. Or two, if you are really, really game.’  
  
Akiyama cleared his throat in an attempt to bring the conversation back to normal lines.  
  
‘Ah well, em, Lieutenant Awashima also said I ought to put a leash on you in case you, uh, went all over the shop. Like that.’  
  
‘What do you mean, put a leash on me? I’m not a foxhound!’  
  
Akiyama shrugged his noncommittal shrug.  
  
‘All right, whatever. Be my leash if you wish. Come.’  
  


  
**†**

  
  
They walked in the direction of Shizume Town. Domyoji looked grumpy, and the grumpiness grew exponentially when pedestrians pointed at the bruise on his face and sniggered. Akiyama decided to distract him before the leash ran out of his hand.  
  
‘How’s Operation Build Stable going?’  
  
Domyoji flicked a grumpy look in Akiyama’s direction, ‘Not as bad as I thought. Just a bit more sussing out and it’s all set. Only the colt wouldn’t go in, and when I showed him who’s boss he hoofed me. The little hoodlum!’  
  
‘What did you do to show him who’s boss?’ Akiyama wasn’t sure he wanted to hear the answer.  
  
‘Well, the Captain said one of the horse’s abilities is that he understands humans better than most animals, so I tried talking sense with him. I said I’d give him carrots and corns on a cob by the bucketful if he went into the stable, and he wouldn’t. I then said I’d brush honey and mustard marinade all over him and throw him on the grill if he didn’t do as I said, and still he wouldn’t,’ Domyoji pelted on. ‘So I took out my sabre and threatened him and said I’d put him down if he didn’t listen - ’  
  
‘You _didn’t_!’  
  
‘’Course not! but he needs a good hiding, the rogue does. ‘Course I wouldn’t half hurt him, what with him being Scepter 4’s first steed and everything. Plus I just built a property for him, not a coffin. And guess how he repaid me? He hoofed me right in the face and legged it, the bastard did! When I get hold of him I swear I’ll make him write three hundred letters of apology and four hundred reports on his own transgression!’  
  
‘He’s a horse, Mr Domyoji. A horse doesn’t - ’  
  
‘He’s a Strain, Mr Akiyama. And please just call me Domyoji. I think I’ve told you at least once before. I hate formalities and I hate repeating the same request because it’s like having my brain rear up on the stem and then dive straight into a puddle of simmering grey matter before it blasts - oh, blast it,’ Domyoji ended his tirade with a moan and clutched his bruised face again. ‘Is it swollen?’  
  
‘What?’  
  
‘My face, Mr Akiyama. Is it swollen?’  
  
Akiyama looked at him, ‘Only a little bit around the hoof shape.’  
  
‘But my whole face feels funny when I talk. It feels like someone else’s face plastered over mine. It throbs and wriggles the wrong way when my mouth moves.’  
  
‘Well, don’t talk then.’  
  
‘But I haven’t - ’  
  
Akiyama grabbed Domyoji by the shoulder and pulled him back.  
  
‘What - ’  
  
‘Is that - ?’  
  
They stared straight ahead, tense and expectant. Two men were walking in their direction, with a horse in between and a child on its back. None of them seemed to have noticed Akiyama or Domyoji.  
  
‘Domyoji, is that - ?’  
  
Domyoji took one careful look at the ambling horse and felt his heart hitch up in anticipation.  
  
‘That’s him! That’s the stupid colt!’  
  
But Akiyama’s attention was on the men. One of them was chubby and wearing a white hoodie with pictures of flame and words on the front. Akiyama didn’t need to squint at the words to figure out who these people were.   
  
‘Homra!’  
  
Akiyama realised his own voice was echoed by Domyoji’s. They glanced at each other, Domyoji furious, Akiyama thoughtful.  
  
‘I can’t believe the colt’s thick enough to join the Red Clan!’ Domyoji hissed. ‘He’s ours, damn it!’  
  
Akiyama made up his mind before Domyoji could lose control and rouse unwanted attention.  
  
‘We’ll negotiate,’ he said, still gripping Domyoji by the shoulder. ‘We’ll approach them as members of Scepter 4 without any personal grudge, and ask them to return the horse. Lieutenant Awashima said to avoid making a scene. It’s the only way.’  
  
He looked Domyoji in the eye. Domyoji blinked, then nodded.  
  
‘Okay, Mr Akiyama. I’ll do the negotiation. I’ll have them know where the horse’s loyalty lies!’  
  
They strode toward the two men. In the back of his mind Akiyama could sense a nag of apprehension that grew in intensity with each step he took. Somehow, despite all their careful planning, something didn’t feel quite right.   
  
He hoped the negotiation would pan out. He’d cross his fingers, toes even, that it would.  
  


* * *

  
  
**A/N** : Timeline-wise I’m now at Basashi Panic in Memory of Red. This chapter preludes the whole Basashi saga because I want to explore how the Strain horse came to be under Scepter 4 custody in the first place. The next chapter will expand on MOR chapters 6 & 7 from Scepter 4’s pov. Embrace the mayhem :-)


	10. Of Chases Great and Small

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: This chapter contains my (rather loose) translation of some of the dialogue from the original Japanese in chapters Basashi Panic part I & II, and Rainy Days in Memory of Red vol 2 (because I don’t have permission to quote online scanlations). I own nothing but some made-up plots that tie the fragmented events together. As ever, the K characters remain the brainchildren of the seven GoRA writers.

 

_‘The day frowns more and more: thou art like to have_

_A lullaby too rough: I never saw_

_The heavens so dim by day. A savage clamour!_

_Well may I get abroad! This is the chase: …’_

 

_(Shakespeare - ‘The Winter’s Tale, Act III’)_

 

 

 

‘Found you!’

‘What?’

‘The horse! And don’t you _what_ me, Red Clansmen,’ said Domyoji, taking another step forward. ‘Time to return the Strain to my care.’

There was a surprised look on the men’s faces, mixed with incredulity. The girl, however, merely bent down to the horse’s head. 

‘What’re you on about?’ said one of the men. This was Kamamoto, or something as such, and in their past encounters he had been one of the loudest and most unpleasant. Domyoji spared him a glance before fixing his eyes on the horse again. 

‘This vicious colt escaped from Scepter 4 Headquarters! You’ve got to return him!’

His point made, Domyoji allowed one and a half second of bemused silence to pass before deciding on an elaboration, ‘This is what he did to me!’ he jabbed a finger into the air that cushioned his bruised face. ‘It’s a serious injury and the animal’s got a criminal offence on his thick-skulled head!’

The Red Clansman, Kamamoto or whatever, snorted. They didn’t believe the horse was dangerous, and Domyoji found it beyond preposterous that he was attempting a negotiation. Who was the person that suggested they negotiate? Couldn’t be he or Akiyama, unless they were subjected to some invalidated chemistry formula which dictated that the brains of a Blue Clansman would irretrievably turn to slop upon nearing a Red Clansman.

Domyoji had no need for a leash. He’d tear it to lint if he could. His peripheral caught the thing that landed on his shoulder - Akiyama’s hand - accompanied by a hiss of warning. This was going nowhere. 

‘Domyoji!’ came Akiyama’s voice, and Domyoji realised with a twang that it was Akiyama who had voted for negotiation.

‘I’m right on it. Stop grizzling!’

‘Not I, you! We don’t want a row here with the Red Clan. It’s against the rules!’

‘… said he didn’t want to go with you.’

The girl’s voice caught everyone’s attention. She had straightened up, but there was a strange air about her almost as neutral as the position she sat in. The two men on either side looked at her. Her mouth was still moving.

‘… said you were a nasty piece of humanity,’ the girl continued, ‘that you were violating his rights as a horse.’

The girl wasn’t making things up; she was conveying the horse’s secret monologue. It was an insane thought, but eye contact with the girl had caused the insanity to take a U-turn and career down the opposite end of incredible. Domyoji found himself repeating the girl’s words in a louder voice; this usually meant he was agreeing. 

‘… and that he wouldn’t go back to a place where he isn’t appreciated.’

As the girl finished, Kamamoto - confirmed Domyoji’s memory - crumpled up whatever snack bag he was holding and said, ‘Well, we certainly don’t want the horse in the wrong hands, do we, lads?’

This was an unexpected turn of events for Akiyama. Throwing finger- and toe-crossing to the wind, he again grabbed Domyoji’s shoulder in an attempt to calm him down. Domyoji turned to him like a fighting rooster.

‘This is not a private retrieval mission anymore. It’s a Strain breakout and the Strain in question has the Red Clan as his accomplices! I wouldn’t say no to an emergency dispatch!’

Akiyama knew when to take Domyoji seriously. The situation had pretty much explained itself. The Red Clansmen were rubbing their knuckles expectantly, urging them on. There was no alternative.

‘Akiyama, ready for emergency battle!’

‘Domyoji, ready for emergency battle!’

The clang of sword against sheath. A loud, screeching neigh. The horse saw two flashing blades and reared up, its front hooves thrashing at the air. Then they hit the ground and the horse shot forward like a pellet, galloping down the street with the Red girl on its back, leaving a quartet of stunned men gawking in its wake.

The first to snap back was Domyoji. The situation had been charging out of hand, and watching it charge out of sight altogether, Domyoji whipped out his PDA. Operation Barricade Strain Horse, on.

**†**

 

On the other side of the phone, Awashima allowed a sigh to escape her throat before hanging up. She possessed a collection of sighs, ranging from mildly irked to roaringly enraged. What she just released was on the safer spectrum. The situation wasn’t severe, which put its level of inconvenience further out of proportion. This was her opinion, and she did a fair job concealing the subjective part of it as she relayed the facts in Munakata’s office.

‘… And as the Red Clan is involved, the situation requires delicate handling,’ she concluded, raising her voice by a slither. She would never do that if Munakata had looked up from his half-finished puzzle board.

Munakata got the hint and looked up. Or rather, he chose the moment of hint-receiving to give Awashima a hint of his own.

‘We have the Red Clan to thank for our share of the trouble.’

‘It would seem so,’ Awashima concurred, not getting what Munakata was driving at.

Munakata released a jigsaw piece he had been fingering, and stood up.

‘What is your evaluation, Ms Awashima?’

‘It is a minor case that requires dispatch of a small number of Swords & Combat members,’ said Awashima. ‘I would suggest four. The four commanders of each squad, that is. However, with Akiyama and Domyoji already on the scene, we need spares, and taking into account the fact that Domyoji is responsible for the Strain horse from the beginning, I would assign Swords Four to go with Benzai and Kamo.’

‘That would be excellent.’

‘Sir.’

Awashima saluted and left the office. Munakata returned to the puzzle board on the table, thinking the case over. Presently he abandoned the jigsaw and took out his PDA.

‘Fushimi speaking.’

‘I have a mission for you, Fushimi, and I will not take no for an answer,’ said Munakata. ‘Please wait for me at the second garage. Thank you.’

 

From the moment he climbed into the car till the moment he climbed out of it, Fushimi did not speak a single word. He had too much work to do, and on top of that he had been analysing the network traffic reports from befuddled Orange technicians since he agreed to assist them at the end of winter. He couldn’t for the life of him figure out what Munakata was playing at, taking him for a drive out in the countryside while he was swamped with work. 

Yes, taking him out for a drive. That was what it felt like, despite the grand excuse Munakata bestowed on it. Fushimi couldn’t think of anything less like a mission. During the drive he had been too pissed off to accost Munakata, and Munakata for his part didn’t talk to Fushimi, which pissed Fushimi off more. Now that the drive was over and they were parked by the highway and surrounded by fields and plains from below, Fushimi leant against the railing and decided on a jab.

‘Since when did going to the country become a mission, sir?’

Munakata had his back to Fushimi, watching the gravel below the highway, ‘Did Mr Domyoji contact you about the Strain horse?’

‘No.’

Fushimi hated it when Munakata started a question by overriding his, especially when said question was one he couldn’t refuse, such as on work.

‘I see.’

‘So?’

‘The horse escaped this morning, and was very recently found running in our direction with a Red Clansman on its back.’

It explained pretty much everything Fushimi cared to know. ‘The case isn’t serious enough to merit your presence, is it, sir?’

‘It may or may not be.’

Fushimi clicked his tongue. Trying to read between lines, especially Munakata’s, was fast becoming second nature.

‘Why would a Red Clansman ride the horse away?’

‘Would a Red Clansman go astride a Strain horse without so much as putting up a fight? I cannot think of many.’

Neither could Fushimi. Shortly after the image of the small, red-clad girl rose to his mind, he pushed it back lest Munakata could read it. Munakata, with his back to Fushimi and his eyes on the ground below, was more than capable of that. Unless he had guessed ahead of Fushimi, which Fushimi suspected might be the case but would never admit it. And, if Anna was the one riding the horse, the entire Red Clan would come to the rescue, which probably included the Red King, which in turn explained Munakata’s involvement.

Fushimi stared at Munakata’s back. The flap on his uniform coat was dark indigo and trimmed with white. Somehow it validated his guess. The Blue King was here for a reason more solid than his stance or coat was letting on.

Fushimi sighed and wished he was back at Headquarters.

 

**†**

 

Domyoji flung open the vehicle door and launched himself on board, almost head-butting Akiyama out the opposite door. Hidaka started the vehicle before the two could sit down, eliciting two antiphonal cries of shock.

‘Belt on, lads. We’re in for the ride of our lives!’

Akiyama couldn’t understand why Hidaka got thrown in. He knew Hidaka was one of Domyoji’s staff, and surmised Hidaka to be of a similar disposition, which worried him, and the worries quadrupled when Hidaka’s driving lurched him off his seat four times before he could lay his hands on the seat belt.   

‘Careful, Hidaka - ’

‘Go, Hidaka, go! Go outdo the horse like the speedo-smashing nutter that you are!’

Akiyama’s voice was drowned by Domyoji’s, and a new worry seized him.

‘No speeding, Hidaka! The mission’s _not_ top emergency!’

‘Look, it’s the bogans from Homra!’ said Hidaka, sounding the horn with relish and drowning Akiyama’s voice yet again. ‘Damn those bikes they’ve got. Where’d they nick them from?’

Domyoji threw his head and shoulders out the window. They were gaining on the Red Clan, who were on motorbikes and skateboards and were closing in on the horse. One of the Clansmen - some sort of nerd with sunglasses on - was ahead of the horse and standing right in its track with arms raised like a lunatic playing Crucifixion. 

‘Like that’s the way to stop a fuming brumby!’

Domyoji laughed as the horse reared up and kicked the lunatic in the face. Akiyama bellowed in Hidaka’s ears and Hidaka swung the steering wheel leftward at the last minute. The vehicle swerved almost ninety degrees, barely avoiding a rear-end with the motorbikes, before swerving back in the right direction and throwing the Red Clan behind.

‘You big bunch of idiots! ha!’

Domyoji watched with rapt eyes as their vehicle drew parallel to the horse. He leant further out, ignoring Akiyama’s shouts. In his excitement he didn’t even notice the horse had turned snowy white and sprouted wings - the sign of unleashing its superpower, according to the farm girl.

‘Stop!’ he shouted, jabbing a finger in the air and inches from the horse’s right eye. The girl astride the horse watched him with a startled look on her face. He ignored her, too.

‘You are to return to Scepter 4 under the charge of - ’

A flurry of wings and feathers and a screeching neigh. The horse reared up mid-gallop and sank a hoof into Domyoji’s face, squarely over the same bruise. Domyoji let out a squeak and barely avoided falling out of the window; behind, Akiyama threw himself across the seat and grabbed Domyoji by the scruff of the neck.

‘ _You_ are the biggest idiot around here, you know that?!’

Hidaka shuddered behind the steering wheel. In Swords, Akiyama was known for being level-headed under all circumstances. Although he hardly got to talk to Akiyama, Hidaka’s intuition told him what just happened had to be the closest Akiyama ever got to losing his temper.

 

Down the other end of the highway, Benzai put his PDA back into his pocket, looking grim.

‘Things on Akiyama and Domyoji’s end didn’t go well,’ he informed Kamo, who was standing guard with him. ‘Proceed to Phase II. Lock down all the major exits.’

Kamo nodded and used his walkie-talkie to relay the message. Behind them, Enomoto, Fuse and Goto were busy raising police lines across the intersection and trying to talk frustrated truck drivers into leaving the highway via the only side exit left open. 

‘This better works,’ said Kamo, sounding morose. 

‘It should,’ explained Benzai. ‘This is one of the many highways that connect the country to the metropolitan area. At least we are not required to disconnect the tram lines.’

‘Someone’s heading this way.’

Kamo was right. A dot appeared on the horizon, grew to a blob, morphed to a square, and solidified to a van. It was painted blue all over and belonged to Scepter 4. Confident that the driver (presumably Hidaka) was in the loop, Benzai didn’t step aside. The van slowed down earlier than he expected, and came to a stop some four to five feet in front of him. The door slid open; a man came out, followed by another.

Benzai recognised the first. Tall, dark-blond and with an air of carefree suaveness, Kusanagi Izumo’s looks were at odds with his position as second-in-command in a clan that specialised in causing chaos, and as such was perceived as a larger if subtler threat than the loud and brash Homra gangsters Benzai and his staff were all too often subjected to.

‘Greetings,’ said Kusanagi, smiling broadly. ‘Sorry to drop in.’

‘I’m sorry, but the road is closed - ’

‘I know, I know,’ said Kusanagi. ‘I’m just wondering if you already let the horse in. Because if you did, I’ll have to follow suit. I need to get Anna.’

Kusanagi appeared to be enjoying the vexed look on Benzai’s face, ‘So - won’t you let us in?’

Benzai searched for excuses; doing that when faced with a Red Clansman was unusual enough. ‘I won’t let anyone in, especially not people from the Red Clan.’ _who for some reason ended up in a Scepter 4 vehicle._

It sounded so petulant and vendetta-driven, Benzai wasn’t surprised to see the smile on Kusanagi’s face widen. Suddenly, Benzai felt like a five-year-old caught in a bitter squabble and unable to get out of it simply because he started it and must have his way through and through.

He began to search for something a bit more biting when a female voice cut in.

‘What is going on?’

‘L-Lieutenant Awashima?!’

Benzai stared. Seeing Awashima emerge alongside two Red Clansmen was like imagining his roommate Akiyama do a solo rumba in a tutu. 

Awashima came up. Kusanagi flashed her a disarming smile; she gave a curt nod and did not smile back. She turned to Benzai.

‘Let us through,’ she said succinctly.

**†**

 

Awashima sat in the back seat, watching Kusanagi’s profile. They were drawing close to the Strain horse - still snowy white and with wings flanking the Red Clan girl on its back - and the roaring engine was threatening to drown the rhythmic clip-clopping of the hooves. Kusanagi stretched out a hand through the open window - an act so dangerous as to be stupid in Awashima’s eyes - but did not make a grab at the girl he was trying to rescue. He simply let his hand hang in mid air, and whether to grab it or not was the girl’s choice.

‘Are you alright, Anna?’

Anna’s hands were caught in the mane on the horse’s neck. She glanced in Kusanagi’s direction, and Awashima noticed her eyes linger for the briefest moment on the vehicle itself.

‘Why the Blue Clan’s car - ?’

‘We’re working together for the time being,’ explained Kusanagi. ‘We want you back, and they the horse. Can you grab my hand?’

‘There’s a place he wants to visit,’ said Anna, indicating the horse. ‘Someone he wants to see. Sorry.’

The moment Anna finished speaking, the horse spread its wings and leapt sideways, down the highway and onto the gravel beneath, Anna on its back, looking unfazed as usual.

Totsuka slammed a foot down the brake. The van went in the emergency line and stopped. With a sigh that barely concealed her disappointment, Awashima got out of the car and leant against the door, thinking the next move. When Kusanagi leant over the window, Awashima forestalled him with the only words she could be bothered throwing at him.

‘You are so disappointing.’

It was too blatant to be polite, but it didn’t rattle Kusanagi. Nothing from Awashima rattled him, that much Awashima was aware. 

‘That’s a bit harsh.’

Meaning to concur, Awashima repeated what Kusanagi branded as harsh with a pronouncedly harsher tone. This time it worked; it drew a sigh from Kusanagi.

‘Gosh, you are icier than ever,’ said Kusanagi, ‘as icy and heartless as the tundra. Shall I call you Tundra Lady?’

Awashima ignored the lack of sincerity in his voice and went on, ‘So this is how the Red Clan operates, is it, throwing caution to the wind and leaving a horse running amok with a young child on its back. As if it was something entertaining.’

Kusanagi rested an arm on the lowered window and watched her, so she turned and met his gaze. Kusanagi smiled apologetically, ‘It won’t happen again. I swear.’ 

Still, Awashima had a sneaky suspicion that Kusanagi was enjoying her reproach. 

‘What do you plan to do now?’

‘Leave it be,’ said Totsuka suddenly. ‘I don’t think it’s as dangerous as you think.’

Awashima knew little of Homra’s third-in-command. If anything he sounded even more flippant than Kusanagi. She did not reply, but could sense Kusanagi turning to look at Totsuka.

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Anna looked fine,’ Totsuka explained. ‘There was this look on her face that said everything would be alright. She rarely asks us for a favour, so when she does, it’s got to be something that means a lot.’

Awashima still had her back to the driver’s seat. She couldn’t hear Kusanagi, and knew the two men had reached an agreement. She thought about their next move, and about the horse she glimpsed leaping down the highway with its wings in the air. She hadn’t so much as looked at it since it came to the headquarters the day before.

‘It’s a fine horse.’

**†**

 

Fushimi fixed his eyes on his boots, willing his mind to pick up work where he left it. It would not do. As smart as he might be, he did not have a memory that was photographic enough to channel uninterrupted thought processes when he didn’t have a computer screen close by. In vain he tried to see past the immaculate leather boots and recall the tech report he had been poring over before Munakata rang him. Fragments came to him, bits and pieces of encrypted message he was yet to decipher. Why had he asked the Orange technicians to encrypt their reports in the first place? There remained the possibility that a cyber attack was behind it, but he wasn’t sure; communicating via encrypted messages was more a matter of confidentiality than a means of facilitating transmission. They might never get to the bottom of it if the hackers (if any) shied from Fushimi’s security measurements. Vaguely, Fushimi wished his precautions had been less strict.

Footsteps drew Fushimi’s attention. He looked up, caught sight of Munakata’s back and diverged. The footsteps were closer, were becoming less muffled and too clipped to be human. It had to be the Strain horse. Munakata was right; the horse was coming their way. From his side of the bridge, Fushimi could just catch the outline of the horse before it was blocked by Munakata. The horse was not alone: it had Anna on its back, and a man at the front with the rein in his hand. Fushimi did not need to go over to Munakata’s side to make out who the man was.

Suoh had a cigarette in his mouth and walked with his eyes lowered. For a man who appeared perpetually sleep-deprived, there was a note of steeliness in his movements as he ignored the figure on the bridge in a way that suggested he had already sensed its presence. Munakata stood stock still, watching Suoh, who passed beneath the bridge and emerged on the other side, ambling out of Munakata’s sight, and still Munakata did not move.

This was strange. Fushimi had been wondering if Munakata was content to play the role of a spectator until the Red King turned up. He was, with the notable exception that his lack of action still tailed the Red King as the latter started to move out of range. 

The urge for needling rose and climbed on top of fragmented tech reports, ’Are you just here to enjoy the view, sir?’

‘Perhaps.’

‘Haven’t you got work to do? What would happen if you didn’t bring back the Strain horse?’

By now Fushimi could hear the clip-clopping on his side of the gravel. If Munakata didn’t act, it probably meant he wouldn’t.  

‘It would be unwise to start a fight with the Red King here,’ said Munakata in a soft voice, although Fushimi was sure those below the bridge could hear it regardless. 

Fushimi had no idea why Munakata opted for an explanation when it was clear that he knew Fushimi had guessed his intentions.

‘I suppose you have work to attend to, Fushimi?’

Fushimi took it as a sign of dismissal. He turned to leave, then stopped, remembering there was only one car and that he didn’t have a driver’s licence. Maybe Munakata wanted him to stay. The fact that he wasn’t in any condition to decline irritated him. He could see no way out of this while Munakata remained spectator to a scene that didn’t even involve Fushimi. His irritation geared up.

‘You can stay and look for as long as you like, sir. I can’t. I - ’

A voice cut him off. Someone was running in his - the Red King’s direction. Fushimi stood rooted to the spot as the voice impaled him. He had heard it in a past dream he struggled to forget. The thought of pleading his workload was gone. 

The Red King had stopped, was being fawned over by his underlings. One of them had a skateboard under one arm and wore a beanie that went down his forehead; when he next spoke, his voice cut through Fushimi like a scalpel.

‘So you caught the horse, Chief!’ Yata’s face was all delight and admiration. ‘You’re the best ‘round here!’

Anger and longing boiled inside Fushimi. Out of instinct, his hand moved to the burn scar on his left collarbone - now more disfigured after the infection - and scratched, his blunt nails cutting whitish furrows into the skin that turned red after the pressure was removed. He would be exposed if Yata looked up; but why couldn’t he be exposed? He wasn’t hiding from the lot of them, he’d be damned if he was. And yet it was never going to happen; Yata was too obsessed with his King to notice anything else. The thought lent fresh vehemence to Fushimi’s fingers. Bits of skin gathered under his nails, pushed so deep into the quick he could feel the cuticle starting to peel off and sticky moisture welling up where flesh parted with keratin.

‘Fushimi,’

Fushimi’s hand froze before the rest of him. Munakata appeared in his peripheral; he was side by side with Fushimi and practically in his personal space without touching. Fushimi stepped back, offended, all thoughts of scar-scratching gone.

Munakata was looking at him with a curious glint in his eyes. Fushimi’s hand fell clenched to his side, the bits of skin under his nails crumbling before soaking up blood. He knew Munakata had seen what he was doing, knew Munakata was going to tell him off like the self-righteous goody two shoes he was, and anger coiled inside him again, fuelled with rebellion and more vicious than ever.

But Munakata did not tell him off. Munakata did not even look at his collar where the burn scar was again  bloodied and clearly visible. After studying his face for what felt like an eternity, Munakata glanced away. And with that, Fushimi realised what he was doing was a trap, a distraction. 

He returned to the spot he had been standing on, his shoulder inches from Munakata’s. Below the bridge, the Homra cohort was gone. There was no reason for the two of them to remain here any longer.

‘My apologies,’ said Munakata in the same soft voice.

‘What for?’

‘For snapping you out of your trance.’

This was an ambiguous way of summarising things, but Fushimi got the underlining message nevertheless. Munakata didn’t approve of his self-mutilation, so rather than lecture him, Munakata stopped him by pretending to invade his personal space, knowing this would put him on guard so much it commanded all his attention in the blink of an eye. Fushimi was silent as he trailed after Munakata to the car, subdued; his anger was gone, was washed away by the pacing undercurrent of mild annoyance that was the norm whenever he was with Munakata.

It was when Fushimi realised they were driving back to the City that the thought of what they were out for returned to him.

‘You are not going to stop the Strain horse, sir?’

‘Lieutenant Awashima is,’ said Munakata. 

 

**†**

 

It had been four weeks since the Strain horse returned to Scepter 4. Originally called Basashi by Kusanagi, Awashima put her foot down when she heard the name and rechristened the horse White Bean Tofu Stew. It wasn’t a name born on the spur of the moment; White Bean Tofu Stew was the first and the finest horse Awashima ever laid eyes on: the smooth alabaster coat, the long, slender legs, and the large, snowy wings that resembled those of angels in religious picture books. Awashima remembered having stewed tofu with white bean paste when she was a child; the food looked so pretty served in a porcelain white bowl it was out of this world. She was a bit disappointed when, on returning to the stable at Scepter 4, the horse’s white coat disappeared along with its wings. Then she learnt that turning white was part of the horse’s Strain package. Awashima had stood by the stable for a good fifteen minutes looking at White Bean Tofu Stew - then a pale chestnut with dark mane - until she became used to the fact that it would probably remain the way it was most of the time, and silently admitted defeat.

On this particular morning in early summer, Awashima went to the stable to check on White Bean Tofu Stew. She wasn’t alone - someone was there already.

‘What are you doing, Goto?’

GOTO Ren, member of Swords Four, jumped and dropped the feed bucket with a loud crash. White Bean Tofu Stew snorted in surprise.

‘I’m feeding Bean Stew, ma’am.’

‘White Bean Tofu Stew,’ stressed Awashima. She approached Goto, who bent to pick up the bucket.

‘Why on earth? He’s a chestnut. Chocolate Fondue’s a much better name.’

Awashima knew Goto had a habit of thinking out loud, and decided to ignore him, ’What is in the bucket?’

‘Kernels,’ said Goto, whose eyes were twice their normal size as he looked at Awashima. ‘Are you going somewhere, ma’am?’

‘Today is my day off,’ said Awashima. She was aware of the stunned and more than admiring looks from her staff as she made her way out of the office building, dressed in blouse and skirt and high heels. However, Goto’s shock was momentary.

‘Oh, okay,’ he said with mild embarrassment, ‘you aren’t on leave very often.’

‘I am not,’ said Awashima. ‘Are you in charge of feeding White Bean Tofu Stew every morning?’

‘No, ma’am. We do it whenever one of us is free,’ Goto caught the scepticism in Awashima’s eyes and added hastily. ‘But we do make sure he gets enough. Every day.’

‘Good. I will consult with the Captain and draft a feeding roster.’

Goto saluted her.

The sky was a murky grey when Awashima got off the tram. Rain was a constant and irregular occurrence at this time of summer. Awashima took out her umbrella and started walking in the direction of Shizume Town. Bar its reputation for being a hotbed of shady street gangs, Shizume Town had a fine shopping centre and several high streets that Awashima liked to frequent. Since becoming lieutenant at Scepter 4, Awashima rarely had time to shop for clothes, and therefore made the most of it when she could, which did not exclude weathers like this.

Although it was her day off, Awashima had asked Munakata to contact her if she was needed. And Munakata had said he would, in his usual mild and courteous voice that was by no means affected. This was what Awashima admired about her Captain; if he needed her, he would ring her instead of faking polite refusals like some government employees she had to deal with at work. 

Awashima passed the intersection. The pedestrian light was blinking yellow; she picked up her pace only slightly, knowing she could well take her time because she had stepped out while the light was green. Across from her, a trio of cars waited in the left-turn lane, the first of them already nudging ahead. Awashima broke into a trot. 

Her feet barely reached the footpath when the first of the three cars sped forward. Alarmed, Awashima took a stride larger than she intended and narrowly avoided getting splashed. Her heels slid on the footpath and gave away, dragging her with them. The umbrella fell from her hand and rolled into the gutter.

Awashima pushed herself up into a sitting posture. Her left leg was stinging; she twisted around and saw a trace of blood streaming down her ankle and diluted clean by the rain. Then she realised it was from one of her heels. It grazed her when she fell. She picked it up and felt the broken heel with a thumb. Now she had every valid and practical reason to buy new shoes. Awashima smiled bitterly.

‘May I help you, miss?’

Awashima raised her head and found herself looking into a pair of light brown eyes peering good-naturedly at her from behind dark sunglasses: Kusanagi, Homra’s bartender and strategist. There weren’t many men among Awashima’s acquaintances who wore sunglasses on a rainy day.

They recognised one another at the same time. Kusanagi allowed a flicker of surprise to pass across his features before treating Awashima to his most disarming smile.

‘Lieutenant Awashima?’

‘Homra’s Mr Strategist,’ Awashima countered, annoyed. The annoyance swung up a scale when Kusanagi sheltered her with his umbrella and a voice both concerned and impudent.

‘What happened, Seri?’

What was it with Kusanagi and first names? He called the Red King by his first name, and despite countless warnings he was again calling Awashima by her first name. If only she had the heart to rebuke him here, with bad shoes and grazed shins and sodden skirt. She didn’t.

‘I have a broken heel,’ she said, ‘and I don’t remember ever being on first name terms with you.’

‘My flat is in this area,’ said Kusanagi. ‘You can change into dry clothes and put yours in the dryer. Coming?’

‘Much obliged.’

Proud she might be, but Awashima knew better than to decline an offer of help from someone she wouldn’t put down as a straight-up enemy. Such was the thought that went through Awashima’s head as she sat in Kusanagi’s lounge putting on Kusanagi’s smallest T-shirt and tracksuit pants. Her own clothes - already soaked before Kusanagi came to her rescue - were in the dryer.

The T-shirt was uncomfortably tight around the chest. Awashima hitched it down, felt the wrinkle tighten under her bust in a rather throttling manner, and gave it up as a bad business.

‘You know,’ came Kusanagi’s voice from the bedroom, ‘for a lady who’s in charge of pretty much the entire Blue Clan, you really are a bit thick life-wise.’

Awashima peered around the bedroom door, too annoyed to be flustered by what she might see. Kusanagi was naked to the waist and was in the process of putting on a dry shirt; he saw Awashima at the door and smiled his disarming smile, which did nothing to disguise the less-than-subtle glance he cast at her chest. Awashima scowled; Kusanagi’s smile broadened.

‘That was just a ribbing,’ he said, buttoning up his shirt casually. ‘Let’s have a drink before your clothes dry.’

 

**†**

 

Awashima sat with a tumbler in her hand and one leg of her tracksuit pants rolled up. Kusanagi knelt in front of her, dabbing at the wound on her shin with a cotton pad. He was gentle enough to not hurt her, which for some reason annoyed her a great deal.

‘How’s Basashi doing?’

Now there was something they could talk about. ‘It’s White Bean Tofu Stew,’ Awashima began. ‘You can’t keep calling him by that barbaric joke of a name.’

‘Okay, okay, White Bean Tofu Stew,’ said Kusanagi, with the air of humouring Awashima at all costs. ‘So he’s doing fine at Scepter 4?’

‘He is. We built a stable for him at the instigation of our King.’

‘Did you? I heard the Blue King was involved in the capture,’ said Kusanagi. ‘No need to look at me like that, Seri - I _know_ your King was there.’

‘Because yours was.’

‘Pretty much, but trust me, getting a reply from Mikoto is like pulling teeth without anaesthesia,’ said Kusanagi with a laugh. ‘You learn to figure out a story from one or two grunts at the very most.’

‘You sound as if you knew the Red King pretty well. Are you friends?’

‘We were. Still are, I’d say, but things started to take a turn when he became King.’

Awashima listened without comment. Kusanagi seemed in the mood for reminiscing, giving a detailed account of his school life from the moment he met the Red King and Totsuka, his third-in-command. 

‘I’m sure your Captain also had an ordinary life before he became King,’ Kusanagi concluded with a smile.

‘That may be open to interpretation.’

Kusanagi had returned to the sofa at some point during his monologue. Awashima realised with a slight start that he was sitting close to her; too close, perhaps. His arm was draped over the back of the sofa she was leaning against. She could smell his cologne, mingled with the scent of tobacco and clean laundry. It didn’t smell unpleasant. She did not draw back when his hand came to rest in her hair, disentangling the slightly damp strands at the side of her face with a gentle stroke.

‘What are you thinking?’ she asked, out of sheer curiosity; it was the way he looked at her. 

‘Oh, this and that and whatnot,’ Kusanagi’s smile was becoming ambivalent. Awashima knew this game, always did since she was out of school. Wherever she went, men vied for her affection. Kusanagi was one of such men; she didn’t dislike him, so she wouldn’t draw back unless he cared to cross the line.

Very slightly, Kusanagi’s fingers brushed her face. Then it was over; his smile hardly wavering, Kusanagi showed her a small leaf he combed out of her hair.

‘Put it this way,’ he eyed her in quiet appreciation, ‘I seem to talk too much when I’m with you. I always do.’

Awashima studied him, his dark blond hair, his features, the amused, intelligent, yet slightly playboy-ish glint in his light brown eyes. It was unusual for someone like Kusanagi to take the rain check before Awashima did.

The beep from her PDA broke her reverie. Kusanagi spared a glance at her pocket, raising his eyebrows by a tad. They drew apart simultaneously, although not out of obligation of any kind.

‘Awashima speaking … yes, of course. Most certainly, sir.’

‘Work?’

‘Yes,’ Awashima stood up. ‘Thank you for the drink and company.’

When Awashima reemerged from the laundry room, dressed in her now clean and dry blouse and skirt, she found Kusanagi leaning against the doorframe, looking at her through rising cigarette smoke.

‘How about visiting me at my bar next time? My shout.’

‘I can be rather picky about my choice of cocktails.’

Kusanagi laughed, ‘Fine by me. I’m the bartender.’

He watched her put on her shoes, ‘How about coming to my place a second time?’

Awashima glanced up. Catching her eye, Kusanagi indicated with his forearm what he meant by _his place._

 _'_ I don’t go for the frivolous type, _’_ said Awashima with a slight smile. 

‘Oh dear. The chase took a turn for the left.’ 

Ignoring Kusanagi’s remark, Awashima stepped into the abating rain, closing the door behind her with a soft click.

 

* * *

**A/N** : finally some Awashima/Kusanagi moments. In her afterword for _Memory of Red_ vol 2, Reiraku (script writer) says she loves the way Awashima and Kusanagi interacts because they can be subtly friendly without getting too close (although they are closer than they’ve ever been in _Rainy Days_ ). I hope my writing conveyed the subtlety I got from the manga shots. xxx   
****


	11. Tokyo Metropolitan Police

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Later part contains indirect reference to events in K SIDE:BLUE

 

_‘Politics have no relation to morals.’_

_(Niccolo Machiavelli)_

 

 

The afternoon sun slanted in through the window, dreary and languid and unabated by whiffs of passing clouds. Slumped in the high-backed chair in his handsomely furnished office, the Prime Minister closed his eyes, allowing the exhaustion from his cabinet meeting to overtake him.

A memo pad lay abandoned on his table, and on top of the crossed-out schedule page lay a business card. The Prime Minister had been about to hand the schedule to his secretary when she brought in his coffee and this card, and a glance at it had caused him to take back his newly finished schedule, only to cross out the _Do Not Disturb_ scribble from beneath the slot labelled _coffee break._ The business card read: _Munakata Reishi, Director of Scepter 4, Tokyo Legal Affairs Bureau, Census Registry Division._

Unlike his meek and unassuming predecessor, the Prime Minister had made it a certainty that his cabinet answer to him in every decision they made, and to him alone. Said cabinet included ministers of Education, Defence, Public Infrastructure, Social Services - the usual lot - and the high commissioner from the Metropolitan Police. He was not going to make the same mistake of bowing to a certain high authority residing in the nation’s tallest building in Nanakamado, which was what his predecessor had done and, in the Prime Minister’s eyes, one of the many reasons why his predecessor had failed to secure a second term.

The Prime Minister leant forward and picked up the business card. Bowing to Nanakamado he would not be, but he was aware of its influence and the organisation that held their own more than they deserved because of it. Scepter 4 was such an organisation, an organisation that did nothing of what they claimed to do. In theory they were a small branch under the Bureau of Legal Affairs, which was affiliated with the nation’s top association for solicitors and barristers; in practice, however, they were a paramilitary police force that specialised in dealing with criminal cases beyond the capability of the Metropolitan Police. To the Prime Minister, the fact that there were cases the Metropolitan Police weren’t able to solve was an outrage, which was hardly appeased when the high commissioner explained what lay behind the _unsolvables_ over a phone call that came in when the Prime Minister was in his coffee-break-and-do-not-disturb schedule slot.

There was a knock at the door. The secretary came in, clutching a revised copy of the schedule. ‘Mr Munakata is here, sir.’

‘Yes, yes, let him in.’

The secretary left. Ignoring his sore back, the Prime Minister sat up straight in his chair. The man he was about to receive in his office stood at the pinnacle of the paramilitary police force that the Metropolitan Police commissioner refused to speak ill of. He wondered what this man could be planning, what he wanted from a government that tried but failed to place Scepter 4 at its disposal.

A young man appeared at the door. Alarmed was the Prime Minister’s first impression. He was alarmed to see a long sword at the man’s coat; how on earth did he go through security? Unwilling to miss anything else that might trigger his suspicion, the Prime Minister took out his glasses and put them on. Everything shimmered into sharp focus, including the sword-bearing young man, who appeared to have synchronised with the way the Prime Minister’s vision restored itself and shimmered from the doorway to the front of the desk between two consecutive blinks. He didn’t seem to have walked like a normal person; he shimmered and glimmered a beeline to the forefront of the Prime Minister’s sense of perception, leaving behind him a ghost of gentle, rhythmic footsteps.

‘Very many congratulations on winning the election, Prime Minister.’

The Prime Minister’s second impression of Munakata Reishi was no more pleasant than the first. For God’s and the emperor’s sake, he had been in office for fourteen months. That’s a whole year if you round it up, and a quarter of his term already done to boot. Even the opposition, who scrambled with obscene eagerness for every chance to poke and ridicule, would probably grimace at the thought of mock-congratulating him on getting the top job at this time of term. And to top it off, Munakata’s smile barely concealed the slick sarcasm in his cultured, clipped accent.

‘I hope it was a pleasant drive from, uh, wherever you came from?’

‘The traffic was tolerable,’ said Munakata. ‘A sure sign that your government is doing sterling work in every aspect.’

The sarcasm was not for him alone, mused the Prime Minister; now it was aimed at his cabinet, starting with the minister of public transportation.

‘I have heard about you from Nanakamado,’ said the Prime Minister. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘Hardly anything I stand in urgent need of. Please first allow me to apologise, Prime Minister, for not having sent you my congratulations earlier. As I myself became director of Scepter 4 only shortly after - ’

‘Yes, yes, I know all that,’ the Prime Minister cut in, showing signs of fatigued irritation. ‘If that’s all you are here for, I doubt our meeting would be a long one.’

‘It would not, Prime Minister.’

‘I heard you were working with the Metropolitan Police?’

‘Yes.’

‘At whose instigation, may I ask?’

‘The high commissioner’s, Prime Minister.’

The Prime Minister assumed as much, the commissioner being too forthright a man to consider this piece of information a skeleton in his cupboard.

‘And that’s because the commissioner finds it beyond his power to solve what he calls _unsolvables_?’

‘I could not have phrased it better myself.’

The Prime Minister studied his opponent; not from a politics perspective, but one that demanded equal amount of vigilance nonetheless. Munakata appeared to be in his early or mid twenties, an age barely suitable for holding a position of any kind, informed the Prime Minister and his thirty something years working in public service. On top of that, Munakata did not have the demeanour of a conventional police officer; what he had was hard to place, and was certainly not what the Prime Minister desired in anyone from his cabinet. Munakata’s smile and tone of voice were polite but not humble or ingratiating; he saw the Prime Minister as an equal, or worse, an apparent equal whose standing was in fact a step or two below his own.

The moment he arrived at this assessment, the Prime Minister’s desire for competition sharpened. He did not like Munakata, because Munakata had all it took - and more - to be a fine politician, not to mention that his charm and good looks was a danger in and of itself.

‘I have yet to read the reports on any of the unsolvable cases,’ said the Prime Minister in the iciest voice he could muster. ‘The Tokyo Metropolitan Police, as you know, is the core of the nation’s federal police network. Since Scepter 4 is quintessentially a police organisation, I do _not_ approve of equal collaboration between the two of you. I want you to return primary investigation rights to the Metropolitan Police and resume your former role of offstage assistance.’

Munakata raised an elegant eyebrow, to which the Prime Minister answered with a scowl, before continuing,

‘I understand your Scepter 4 has abilities the Metropolitan Police do not, and I also understand why that’s the case. Against my wish I have consulted Nanakamado, and his Excellency,’ the title made him uncomfortable, ‘it is also his Excellency’s wish that you do _not_ step out of line. You shall not take cases from the Metropolitan Police without their express authorisation. If you do, the commissioner will inform his Excellency. Do I make myself understood?’

‘Yes, perfectly,’ said Munakata, smiling silkily. ‘Your wish is my command, Prime Minister.’

Still it didn’t feel quite right. The Prime Minister had expected wounded pride, shuffling feet, and most of all avoiding of eye contact, all of them symptoms of post-scolding self-repentance and rightly so. But Munakata exhibited none of it. He just stood there bestowing the same haughty and polite smile - with the Prime Minister sitting and him standing, the bestowal was unmistakeable - as though he was indulging the head of government’s every whim, at no expense of his own and taking it anything but seriously. 

‘Have you any idea why I arrived at this decision, Mr Munakata?’

Munakata condescended to allow a touch of incredulity in his tone that was no more sincere than his words, ‘I would not have dreamt of it.’

The Prime Minister retrieved a folder from the pile brought in by his secretary after the cabinet meeting. As much as the politician in him loathed Munakata, he was obliged to carry his point across, man to man, official to official. He handed the folder to Munakata, who took it with an air of expecting and relishing something far worse.

‘Complaints lodged against the ministry of public transportation,’ Munakata mouthed the words on the first page. ‘Interesting.’

‘Oh, is it? It may be interesting and sunshine and roses to you, young man. It’s nothing but trouble for me. Four weeks earlier, your Scepter 4 locked down one of the major highways going out of Greater Tokyo. You may have thought you got away with it, but it is to _my_ minister that people are sending complaints. What was the justification behind that move?’

Munakata handed the file back, ‘It was one of your _unread_ unsolvable cases, Prime Minister. The Metropolitan Police was neither involved nor aware. It was a mistake born of a moment of indiscretion on Scepter 4’s part, and I am pleased to inform you that my staff did a stellar job rectifying it.’

Unless the Prime Minister was mistaken, there was a shade of mischief in Munakata’s features when he gave his explanation. The Prime Minister crossed his arms; it was not in his nature to find fault where there was none, but years of politics had instilled in him a shrewdness that dogged his every move, conscious or otherwise.

‘Then I have no more to say on this matter,’ he replied. ‘You will, as you are told, answer to the Metropolitan Police if your assistance is desired. I do not want to receive complaints or reports of you taking over every case or,’ he stressed, ‘of you _being_ the mastermind behind it. Do we have an agreement?’

‘Undoubtedly.’

‘Good. Good. You may leave now. I don’t have all day with you.’

They looked each other in the eye. The Prime Minister took in Munakata’s outfit, his cravat, his starched uniform, and the long-lashed, almost regal smile that topped all of it. There was nothing desiccated about this young man; he would go on to achieve something unprecedentedly great, if he hadn’t already. With the allegiance of such a person unclear, the Prime Minister’s sense of unease began to take over his sense of loathing.

‘I wish you a very pleasant afternoon, Prime Minister.’

Munakata shimmered out of sight just as he had shimmered into appearance prior to their appointment, his boots shinier than the newly-polished chandelier on the ceiling and barely making a sound on the floor. Again the Prime Minister sank into his high-backed chair, his glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose with what his fingers told him was sweat. Sweat of tension and annoyance. The Prime Minister took off his glasses and took up his phone. He had lied to Munakata because he needed to assert dominance; now he had to round off the lie and make it a reality.

‘Hello. Get me Metro Police. Commissioner’s Office. Urgent business. Thank you.’

While on hold, the Prime Minister went through his agenda item by detailed item. First, he had to override the commissioner’s decision and force him to the front line; second, he would tell the commissioner it was their job to take the plunge with the unsolvables and not just sit back handing both work and credit to some self-proclaimed paramilitary police organisation; third, the Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department of Investigation was to put Scepter 4 under covert surveillance, top secret and no arguments.

 

**†**

 

KUSUHARA Takeru, member of Tokyo Metropolitan Police Riot Squad, straightened up in surprise at the sight of his boss in the equipment room.

When he was not on assignment, Kusuhara was in charge of the equipment room. He volunteered for it because he did not believe he was good at paperwork in an office environment, whereas his boss, TAMURA Atsushi, was a man capable of wielding equal amount of influence both in action and in office. According to Tamura, Greater Tokyo of this day and age was safer than it used to be; safer as in having less public riots (hence less emergency dispatches for their squad), that is, because in terms of mayhem and chaos no ward beat Shizume Town, the ward where business and crime flourished in equal measures. When he first joined the riot squad, Kusuhara had been sent to Shizume Town for a bank robbery. During the conflict he was granted a glimpse of squalor after the robbers were subdued and forced to show the police their hideout. Shizume Town was not all glory and glamour as its high-class pubs and cafes would have people believe.

The riot squad had a warehouse that stored an assortment of police paraphernalia. It was not the sort of place any of the squad members enjoyed staying at unless they had to get equipment prior to a dispatch. Kusuhara didn’t even remember seeing Tamura here. A small part of him hoped rather than wondered if Tamura was here to talk to him.

‘Sir.’

Tamura started. He appeared lost in thought and obviously didn’t see Kusuhara.

‘Oh, it’s you,’ he said with a preoccupied smile. ‘How are things?’

‘All numbered and sorted, sir. I have ordered a backup supply of overalls following the tram case the previous week, sir,’ said Kusuhara, referring to the gas explosion accident at a railway bistro for which a small number of his squad mates were dispatched. None was injured.

‘Good. Excellent.’

Kusuhara noticed the same preoccupied smile, and wondered what had happened at the meeting with the superintendent.

‘Did something happen, sir?’

Tamura had been browsing the locker full of bulletproof vests. At the question, he paused to look at Kusuhara.

‘Do I look worried?’

‘No sir. Preoccupied.’

Tamura laughed, ‘With that sharp eye of yours, Kusuhara, you should think about working in a different div. Have you considered Investigation?’

‘Investigation, sir?’

‘Yes, Investigation. Start with Detective Constable, end with Detective Chief Inspector. DC, DS, DI, DCI Kusuhara. What do you think?’

Kusuhara hadn’t been with Law Enforcement long, even less with the riot squad. Investigation sounded like too much brainwork, and he told Tamura so, earning another laugh.

‘I’d be sorry to see the back of you,’ said Tamura, beckoning Kusuhara closer. ‘You’re happy being here, are you?’

‘Very much, sir.’

One of Kusuhara’s quirks was his tendency to be overly polite with pretty much everyone, even those who were his age. However, there was a freshness and sincerity to his tone that made his manner of addressing people pleasant and more than likeable. Despite his age and limited experience, Kusuhara was well-regarded by Tamura, and popular with pretty much every one of his colleagues.

‘You were right,’ said Tamura, walking toward the entrance to the equipment room with Kusuhara tagging along. ‘I was at the superintendent’s meeting. The superintendent was relaying matters regarding, uh, the entire Metro Police, following a phone call from the high commissioner.’

Kusuhara knew little of the hierarchical structure of the Metropolitan Police, except that the riot squad was under the Law Enforcement Division. Tamura didn’t seem to be expecting a comment; he went on, 

‘You remember some of the unsolvables from last year?’

Kusuhara remembered. Those cases would have baffled the Investigation Division had they not outsourced them.

‘Yes, sir. But I heard they were all successfully closed up. Metropolitan Police sanctioned the outsourcing.’

‘No, no, I wouldn’t call it “outsourcing”, Kusuhara. More like a collaboration between Scepter 4 and us.’

Kusuhara had been struggling to remember the company or whatever that took the job. Now he had it.

‘Yes, Scepter 4. They seem to have taken over most of our cases now.’

‘They did, but not anymore. The high commissioner said we - of course he means the Investigation Division of all - have to take charge of every case. The collaboration has ceased. Government regulation or something.’

Kusuhara thought about it, ‘You mean civil cases, sir. Surely there are cases we can’t work out. The unsolvables, I mean. Everyone knows about those. And,’ he thought harder, ‘I don’t think the government has any business telling us how to handle our affairs.’

‘Technically they don’t, but they can if they want to,’ said Tamura. ‘The new PM’s a nasty piece of work if you ask me. No better than the old one. I heard he’s planning to expand the defence force, to make it stronger. Some Defence people joined Scepter 4 last year when the new director came on board. Can you believe the PM’s still feeling sore about it?’

‘Either that, sir, or he’s in the military push.’

Tamura cringed at the frankness, ‘Never go into politics, Kusuhara.’

‘I’d never, sir.’

‘You feel like stretching your legs a bit?’

‘I’d love to, sir.’

Tamura spent his mid-morning break having a stroll with Kusuhara. Kusuhara could tell his boss was worn out from coping with double the amount of paperwork because his assistant was on leave. Perhaps he could try his hand at doing paperwork just for the sake of helping Tamura. 

‘You haven’t explained why you’re not happy about the meeting, sir.’

‘Do I look unhappy?’

‘Not much, but I could tell you have second thoughts about the superintendent’s decision.’

‘Not the superintendent’s. He was just repeating what the commissioner wants, who repeated what the government _prefers_. None of us is in a condition to say no. Basically, with Scepter 4 out of the picture, I’m afraid we will have to tackle those unsolvables ourselves if they pop up again.’

‘Just what makes those cases unsolvable, I wonder.’

‘Are you superstitious, Kusuhara?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Nor I. But from what I heard, the unsolvables are what they are because the criminals have powers beyond our recognition,’ said Tamura. ‘By “our” I mean everyone, you and I and the commissioner and of course the Prime Minister.’

‘Everyone but Scepter 4, I guess.’

‘Exactly. The commissioner speaks highly of them. Their officers possess powers that match those criminals. Passing unsolvables to them is a matter of efficiency, and also how it should be.’

‘I wonder what their director thinks of this? Would we put them out of business if we took those cases back?’

Tamura’s laugh was cynical, ‘I doubt we could handle those cases. Eventually Scepter 4 will have them back. We are just getting our arses kicked by those criminals if Scepter 4’s director decides to hold his fire.’

Kusuhara knew nothing of Scepter 4’s director, so he did not comment.

‘I don’t think we are that bad, sir,’ he said, addressing Tamura’s cynicism. ‘Our Investigation Division doesn’t exist for nothing, and in the event of a confrontation, we will be there. Everyone. We’re the riot squad.’

Tamura paused and looked at Kusuhara, bright-eyed and brimming with boyish enthusiasm. A brief look was enough to restore his spirits. Such was Kusuhara Takeru, his youngest staff. Not remarkably clever, but honest and promising.

‘Come to the office, Kusuhara, we’ve got - ’

His voice was cut off by the shrill screech of the siren. He saw Kusuhara mouth something at him but didn’t pause to think. An emergency dispatch was required. Against the siren that drowned every sound, he dispensed with talking and merely nodded at Kusuhara, who understood and saluted him. Then they both began to run in the direction of the equipment room, joining columns of men who were already on their way.

 

**†**

  
****

Kusuhara pushed open the ward door, his heart hammering and his brain reeling from flashbacks of the mission. It was his first time meeting those ‘special’ criminals - Strains, he was later informed - face to face, and also his first time seeing the legendary Scepter 4 at work, who for some inexplicable reason had turned up to save the day when the riot squad was on the brink of failing their mission.

From what Tamura told him before the emergency dispatch, Scepter 4 no longer had the right to take over any cases, so their appearance was a mystery beyond solving. But they had appeared, and had caught the criminals, who were to be put under custody at their headquarters, not the Metropolitan Police’s, because they were the rightful officers and investigators when it came to Strain cases. Stunned, Kusuhara had watched the criminals - Strains - being cuffed with handcuffs that sparkled with light that resembled electric current, which had brought the Strains under control without hurting them. Their superpower simply got locked in, and they weren’t to unleash it as long as they had the cuffs on them. 

Kusuhara closed the door behind him as softly as his shaken nerves allowed him. The man lying on the one and only bed in the ward was Tamura, his boss. The room was refreshingly cool and smelt of hospital; Kusuhara winced as he became aware of the stench of sweat and blood from his own clothes: Tamura’s blood. Tamura had been shot in the leg and bled all over Kusuhara as Kusuhara tried to hold him up. What with everything that happened after the capture, Kusuhara hadn’t got around to changing out of his riot gear; the sweat on his feet had dried up and glued his socks to the inside of the shoes. It felt squishy and disgusting. Afraid the smell on him would disturb his boss, Kusuhara paused halfway between the bed and the door, and waited.

‘What are you doing there, Kusuhara?’ said Tamura without opening his eyes. He sounded mildly tired; he sounded better than he looked.

‘I… I thought you were asleep, sir. I don’t want to wake you.’

‘You smell horrible. Go visit a catacomb and you’ll have an army of the Undead at your command.’

Kusuhara smiled despite himself. His boss was definitely better than he looked.

‘I came straight from the scene, sir. I got held back a little, talking to a few Scepter 4 officers and … the director.’

Tamura opened his eyes, ‘You talked to Scepter 4’s director?’

‘Yes, sir, Director Munakata. But his staff calls him Captain.’

‘I see. What did he ask of you?’

Kusuhara thought Tamura must have read his thoughts. The way the question was worded was like a confirmation. Kusuhara had the feeling that Tamura already knew what he would say, what his answer would be.

‘The director … Mr Munakata saw me when I charged. He wasn’t at the scene then, but he watched me from only he knows where. He said I’m an extraordinary kendoist. But I - ’

‘Go have a shower, Kusuhara. Clears your mind and saves my olfactory nerves.’

Kusuhara obeyed, not blaming Tamura for literally putting up with him longer than his state allowed him to. He showered in the staff cubicle and, unable to find clean clothes, washed his shirt and jeans by hand and put them on without drying them. In a huge laundry basket he dumped his helmet, overall, bulletproof vest, knee and elbow protectors, and footwear, and sprayed the lot with disinfectant before putting it in the dry cleaner. 

When he returned to Tamura’s room, barefoot and dripping from head to toe, there also returned the feeling that Tamura had ordered him to shower because he for some reason wanted to stop Kusuhara from telling the tale in one go.

‘Sir.’

Tamura opened his eyes to look at Kusuhara. Reading the wordless permission, Kusuhara went up and sat on the bedside chair.

‘What’s this wet dog look supposed to mean, Kusuhara?’

‘I haven’t got spare clothes, sir. And I didn’t use the towels because I’m not sure if it’s allowed.’ 

Using the hospital’s dry cleaner without permission, yet shying from asking the nurses for a towel; this particular quirk of Kusuhara’s appeared to hail from a time when nobody but motherly women could persuade little boys to sit still and not pull pranks for as long as their attention spans permitted. 

‘Continue where you left off,’ said Tamura, propping himself up on a pillow. ‘Director Munakata, of Scepter 4. What did he say to you again?’

_Maybe Tamura wasn’t trying to hold him off._ ‘He said I’m an extraordinary kendoist, sir, that he’d be honoured to have me … in Scepter 4, sir.’

Silence hung between them, thick and unyielding. In vain Kusuhara tried to prod at it with a resolution he did not feel. 

‘But I’m a member of Tokyo Metropolitan Police Riot Squad, sir. I was and always am.’

‘But not always will be,’ said Tamura. ‘I don’t think so. And you don’t, either. What do you make of Mr Munakata?’

‘He’s … it’s hard to describe it straight off, sir. He’s certainly a highly capable and disciplined officer. There’s something he upholds beyond every mortal conviction. I can tell just by looking at him. But I can’t read his thoughts or his moves, sir. It’s like trying to read a book in a different language.’

‘Something he upholds beyond every mortal conviction. Good God, Kusuhara, I never heard such eloquence from you. Is it meant to be a compliment?’

Kusuhara felt his ears grow hot, ‘It’s not some sort of hero worship thing, sir. We at the riot squad have something we believe in, don’t we, something we work for, like peace, or justice and order, or something. I don’t think it’s the same with Director Munakata. It’s not like he believes in something evil, he doesn’t. I just don’t know how to put to words what he believes in. It’s similar to ours but also beyond and above it. He has his own creed. It’s a sort of righteousness,’ he said, throwing up his arms, ‘call it God’s will or goodwill or whatever la-di-da tosh if you like. It’s about that sort of big words you find in big, important books. But it doesn’t feel pretentious when Director Munakata said it,’ then he remembered the enormous crystal-like sword that materialised out of thin air and hung above Munakata’s head. ‘It’s just, something that’s entirely _him_.’ he concluded, trying and failing to convey how he felt.

Tamura regarded him; his expression was hard to read.

‘I see.’

Kusuhara fell silent, but not for long. He was thinking about his side of the event, about how Tamura got injured. He had failed to protect his boss, not because he wasn’t quick or strong enough, but because the criminal had superpower. It was a match in which his failure was almost predestined; there was no way he could have altered it. Unless perhaps …

‘I wasn’t able to protect you, sir,’ he began, hating the tremor in his voice. ‘Scepter 4 officers have everything I have, but they also have something I don’t have. That’s why they can solve the unsolvables. That’s why nobody in Scepter 4 was injured.’

‘It wasn’t your fault,’ said Tamura gruffly. ‘With our job, getting a bullet is like dunking a biscuit in your tea. Whether the bullet goes through your leg or your head is a matter of luck. I was lucky enough to not get my head knocked in. And mind you I can still walk.’

Kusuhara agreed, but couldn’t shake off the tremor that seemed to tear from his throat. He cleared it and rubbed both hands over his face. The scent of hospital-grade antiseptic shower gel was sharp but refreshing.

‘I’m sorry, sir. I get caught up in what-ifs too often.’

‘You do, and don’t you let it affect you more than it already does.’

Kusuhara avoided his boss’s eyes.

‘What now, sir? You’re out of commission for what happened to your leg. And I …’ his voice trailed off. He wasn’t comfortable with the prospect of saying out loud what had been on his mind for quite a while.

‘What do you want to do, Kusuhara?’

Tamura’s voice was kind. Kusuhara looked up, knew his boss understood what he was thinking, but would not say it for him. It was his choice entirely, not necessarily propelled by the sense of guilt his boss forbid him from suffering.

‘I’ve got the offer of the place from Director Munakata.’

‘You do.’

‘He said I can take as long as I need. To think it over.’

‘He did.’

‘I want to - I can’t let those criminals have their way, Strains or not.’

‘After what happened today, the Metropolitan Police will have to rethink their strategies in dealing with Strain cases,’ Tamura stopped concurring. ‘Scepter 4’s assistance is more than needed with regard to those crimes. It’s up to the high commissioner to decide if he wants Scepter 4’s full involvement like he did before, but he also has government policies to adhere to. In either case, Scepter 4 cannot fade into oblivion, as much as our Prime Minister may desire it.’

Kusuhara stood up. His shirt still clung to him, dripping.

‘I’ll join Scepter 4, sir, but I’m still - ’

‘You’re not a double agent, Kusuhara, and neither do I want one,’ said Tamura. ‘There’s no vendetta between Scepter 4 and the Metropolitan Police whatsoever. Joining them is as good as staying here. Your allegiance is to Director Munakata while you are with Scepter 4, but I’m still your old boss and I won’t kick you out if you come back with your tail between your legs.’

Catching the banter, Kusuhara grinned.

‘I hope you’ll be on the mend soon, sir.’

‘Can’t you see I’m already up capering and somersaulting? Really, Kusuhara, I said I’d be sorry to see the back of you. I now wonder if it’s worth the wait in case you ever decide to come back and see me.’

‘I will, sir. When we next see each other, whenever it may be, you’ll be on your feet and I’ll be in Scepter 4 uniform.’

‘Promise me _you_ will also be on your feet.’

’Of course I will, sir. I promise.’

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know much about the Japanese government/politics or such as concerns the K universe (there's no mention in the canon apart from that they have a Prime Minister), so I made things up based on what I know about my own country (Australia) and other commonwealth countries.


	12. Birds of a Feather

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: As ever, I don’t own the characters, or their names, or plot recap of any kind you recognise from K SIDE:BLUE, K R:B, Lost Small World, Memory or Red, or Days of Blue. I do, however, own the plot that fills in the gaps between events from the above mentioned canon.

 

_‘You may encounter many defeats, but you must not be defeated._

_In fact, it may be necessary to encounter the defeats,_

_so you can know who you are, what you can rise from, how you can still come out of it.’_

 

_(Maya Angelou)_

 

In spite of his decision to join Scepter 4, the actual transferring from Metropolitan Police took longer than Kusuhara assumed. The employees at the Law Enforcement did not help much, either. They seemed unwilling to explain to Kusuhara why the application took weeks to process, which in Kusuhara’s opinion was plain weird because on paper he was merely applying to be transferred _away_ and was not required to confirm with Scepter 4 or receive their permission to have him transfer _in._

On the flip side, Kusuhara was allowed to start at Scepter 4 while waiting for the result of his application. At the riot squad, the explanation was that he was on _long leave due to personal reasons._

Kusuhara’s installation ceremony took place on a Saturday afternoon in late summer. It was arranged at the weekend because Munakata couldn’t get around during the week: the beta-class robbery that brought Kusuhara into prominence had demanded too much of his attention. According to Lieutenant Awashima, who spared an hour after work on Friday and showed Kusuhara around the premises, the robbery was an unusual case not because the perpetrators were beta-class Strains, but because they seemed organised and acted with a common agenda. Organised crimes were always harder to investigate, to which Kusuhara agreed, remembering Tamura’s bantering suggestion that he transfer to the Department of Criminal Investigation at Metropolitan Police.

‘Has Scepter 4 got its own CID, ma’am?’ asked Kusuhara as he followed Awashima out of the office building.

‘Yes, we call ours ID. Intelligence Division.’

‘It must be a lot of work for them, what with investigating those beta-class Strains and everything.’

‘Yes, they are in charge of investigating the case and also interrogating those criminals,’ said Awashima, walking in the direction of the residential hall. ‘But you will not be working with them, Kusuhara. You are in the Swords & Combat Division. Fourth squad.’

‘How many squads are there?’

‘Four. Swords Four is a bit of a boys’ club, but they have potential. I suppose the reason behind the Captain’s decision to place you there is that you may be a good influence on them, behaviour-wise.’

Kusuhara wasn’t sure he understood. Swords Four sounded like a gang of pranksters and miscreants, but he knew it couldn’t be.

‘Due to the nature of their work, Swords and Intelligence employees are required to board here,’ said Awashima, opening the front door to the residential hall. ‘We have had emergency dispatches in the middle of the night where the siren is less likely to get you if you all live at home.’

Kusuhara had a granny flat near the Metropolitan Police headquarters. It was also close to a tram line that led to the country where his parents lived. Being the only son, he always visited them whenever he was on leave.

‘What’s the dormitory like, ma’am?’

‘Two to a room,’ said Awashima. ‘For men, at least. Men’s quarters need a bit of refurbishing, but the project requires an interim of at least four months during which everyone has to find accommodation elsewhere, and we cannot afford losing the 24/7 availability, not even for a single day.’

Kusuhara thought about sharing a room with another person from Swords. He wouldn’t mind that, having boarded at school camps before.

‘But you are in for a bit of luck, Kusuhara,’ Awashima continued. ‘With you on board, we now have an odd number of Swords employees, which means a new room will be allocated to you until the Captain decides on hiring another Swords member. Personally, I don’t think he will.’

‘Is it unusual to have a room to yourself, ma’am?’

‘Yes, but not unheard of.’

Kusuhara wondered who else had a room to himself, but did not ask. Awashima showed him his room, which was on the third floor and near the library.

‘Cafeteria is on the ground floor,’ Awashima explained, ‘bath and laundry on the first, rooms on the second and up. Swords Four are under you. You will meet them during the installation ceremony.’

**†**

 

Enomoto stood on tiptoes and tried not to lose his footing while keeping his posture upright. It was hard, remaining still and trying to look over someone a head taller than he was. It happened every time Hidaka stood ahead of him. With assemblies he didn’t care much, but this was no ordinary assembly. This was an installation ceremony for the Swords & Combat Division, and Enomoto had never seen it live apart from the one he took part in when he first joined.   
****

‘Stop huffing into my neck, Enomoto!’

‘Stop being a wall, then!’

They both had the grace to keep their voices down, but to Enomoto, it was still clearly and painfully audible. Further ahead, Enomoto caught sight of Domyoji, their boss, glaring at them across Hidaka’s shoulder and mouthing the words _shut up._

Enomoto felt heat rising up his neck. He had heard rumours that Domyoji was prone to accidents, or to being the cause of them; since Domyoji was their commander, rumours might also have it that the entire Swords Four were the same. Maybe that was why the newcomer was assigned to their squad. To keep a leash on them.

Next to Enomoto, Fuse tilted his head by a tad and looked through the space between Hidaka and Goto’s shoulders. Being the slyer of the two, Fuse was sure he wouldn’t get caught like Enomoto did. He could just make out Awashima, handing a long, thin something that he knew was a sabre to Munakata, who stood facing a nondescript young man. At a gesture from Awashima, the young man went down on one knee, keeping his head bowed. 

‘It isn’t like what we went through,’ Fuse whispered to Enomoto.

‘How so?’

‘Ours was a group thing, remember? More like everyone standing in line and saluting and receiving a medal or something. One-to-one installation’s different. You go down on one knee like a knight pledging allegiance to a feudal lord. It’s so out of date. Almost medieval.’

Enomoto was amazed at the lack of glares thrown in Fuse’s direction, but was too busy digesting his words to care. With Hidaka walling off his line of vision, Enomoto closed his eyes and pictured what it was like. A knight pledging allegiance to a feudal lord… It must be kind of cool, but in an old-fashioned way, like Fuse said. Deep down, Enomoto acknowledged that everything about Scepter 4 had a touch of quaintness.

‘You know what this reminds me of?’ muttered Fuse.

‘What?’

‘Fushimi.’

‘But we aren’t in his div. We weren’t there at his installation.’

‘That’s true,’ conceded Fuse. ‘What I meant’s that this new kid Kusuhara is the first to join Scepter 4 since Fushimi did. Kusuhara looks all right. It’s a pity he’ll probably share Fushimi’s room. Must be a nightmare.’

Enomoto considered this. A nightmare indeed, but he preferred keeping this kind of opinion to himself.

‘We’ll find out,’ he said. ‘We have training this afternoon.’

‘A lovely Saturday gone.’

‘I know.’

After the installation, Enomoto, Fuse, Goto and Hidaka broke out of the assembly and went straight to Kusuhara, who was still standing in the middle of the outdoor training field, looking dazed.

‘You’re the new kid?’ said Hidaka in an overly familiar tone that people didn’t normally use with someone they hardly knew. 

Kusuhara spun at the source of the voice. He had an open, honest face that still kept traces of its boyish roundness.

‘Yes, sir!’

Hidaka gaped. Kusuhara had clicked his heels together in a perfect salute. 

‘Were you in the army?’

‘No sir. Tokyo Metropolitan Police Riot Squad, sir.’

‘Stop sir-ing us,’ Goto cut in, sounding a mixture of embarrassed and amused. ‘We aren’t your boss. Domyoji is, but he’s a bit of a dork, so you want to make your own assessment before deciding on sir-ing him. I’m Goto, by the way. And this big troll here is Hidaka.’

‘Hey! Who’re you calling a troll?’

Kusuhara stared wide-eyed at the bickering pair. Seizing the chance, Enomoto went up.

‘Enomoto.’

Kusuhara looked at the proffered hand and shook it, ‘Kusuhara.’

Fuse eyed Kusuhara with something akin to empathy on his face.

‘I can’t believe you’re going to end up with Fushimi. What did you do to deserve it?’

Catching the perplexed look in Kusuhara’s eyes, Enomoto elbowed Fuse in the ribs and smiled apologetically. ‘Sorry about Fuse, Kusuhara. He’s talking about your room arrangement. He only said that because there’s another guy somewhere around here who has a room to himself while the rest of us share.’

Kusuhara’s bewilderment was replaced by the same honest and bright-eyed look he had been sporting. ‘I see. Lieutenant Awashima showed me around yesterday and I was given a new room. I’m not sharing with anyone, not yet.’

‘ _What_?’

Seeing four pairs of eyes (excluding Enomoto’s glasses) on him, Kusuhara took a step back, looking half-flustered and half-uncertain. ‘I - said I’m not sharing. I haven’t got a roommate. Is there anything wrong with that?’

‘Nothing. Just - nope, forget about it,’ said Enomoto quickly. ‘We were wondering if you might end up with a roommate. It’s just as well you didn’t. Good on you.’

‘Why haven’t you got a roommate?’ asked Hidaka.

‘Uh, I - Lieutenant Awashima said I’m the odd number, so I got my own room.’

‘But you could’ve boarded with Fushimi!’

‘Shut it, Goto!’ Fuse cut in. ‘Do you want our new squad mate killed?’

‘I just can’t believe there’s all this special treatment of not having to put up with a roommate!’

‘Hey, hey, I’m not that bad,’ said Hidaka, slinging an arm around Goto’s shoulder. ‘Tell me you think I’m all right. I know you do.’

Goto swatted Hidaka’s arm away and turned to Kusuhara, ‘Sorry about all that. It’s just I never thought the Captain was this liberal in giving special treatments. I’m not jealous, you know.’

‘You are, _Gottie_. Jelly as jellyfish.’

‘Am not!’

‘Are so!’

‘Am not! _You_ are jelly ‘cos you prefer Kusuhara to me but I was the one talking with him!’

Hidaka decided to settle the matter by ruffling Goto’s hair. Goto yelped; Hidaka grinned. 

‘Gottie’s partly right,’ he told Kusuhara. ‘You’re a cheerful one to be around. Let’s head to lunch, the five of us.’

‘It’s not lunchtime yet!’

‘But we need a celebration of sorts,’ Hidaka ignored Fuse. ‘And celebrations call for foooood!’

Enomoto pretended to flinch. ‘You will be attending your first training this afternoon,’ he explained to Kusuhara as they began to make their way to the cafeteria. ‘Luckily it’s a small batch. Just us five and a few guys from Swords One.’

‘What kind of training, sir?’

‘Kendo. And drop the sir, please.’

‘You know, lads,’ said Hidaka, addressing everyone apart from Kusuhara, ‘now that Kusuhara’s here, I think we ought to stop chitchatting behind Fushimi’s back about him being the Captain’s favourite.’

Kusuhara didn’t know who Fushimi was, so he remained quiet and watched his squad mates. To his surprise, they all showed various signs of discomfort at the topic.

‘When did Fushimi grow on you?’

‘Let’s talk about lunch. I’m getting that new sushi roll that just came out.’

‘What’s gotten into you, Hidaka?’

Hidaka looked unrepentant, ‘You guys amaze me. Young Kusuhara was given a single room, and so was Fushimi. I don’t reckon the Captain favours Fushimi in any particular way, unless he’s also hitting it off with Kusuhara which I think would weird Kusuhara out because the two of them are just that different. But Kusuhara’s looking all sunny and chipper so I know it didn’t happen. Fushimi and Kusuhara just both got lucky, accommodation-wise. So basically what I’m saying is if you guys ever talk in that dodgy voice about Fushimi being close with the Captain after today, you’re as good as picking on Kusuhara here and we all know it’s a bad thing to pick on your own squad mate. So forget about it, okay?’

Hidaka glanced at Enomoto, Fuse and Goto. The look on their faces was one of disgruntled consent. He then grinned at Kusuhara.

‘What’s sticking you to the ground? Get moving.’  

 

**†**

‘Mr Fushimi?’

Fushimi clicked his tongue. The Intelligence member in question caught his eye and swallowed nervously.

‘What?’

‘I’m just wondering if you are using the database, Mr Fushimi.’

‘Which branch?’

‘The one storing employee information. We’ve got a new Swords member today, so the database needs updating.’

Fushimi swiped the console screen. A window showing the database structure was brought up, hiding the window he had been staring at, which contained a snippet of the latest tech report from Orange.

‘I’m using the report backup branch, not employee info.’

‘Oh, alright.’

Fushimi watched the Intelligence member leave.

‘Are you checking with everyone?’

‘Yes. So I don’t overwrite anybody’s work by accident.’

There were five to six people scattered about the room, working. Unable to stand the thought of hearing the same question repeated over and over again, Fushimi stood up. The Intelligence member took the hint and came back, but stopped a good several feet in front of Fushimi. Fushimi typed on the console; a dotted graph sprang up, with the highlighted dots showing names of those who were currently logged in at the div.

‘No one’s using section employee info.’

They read the graph on opposite sides of the console. Fushimi’s evaluation came quicker.

‘Oh, okay. Cheers.’

Fushimi sat back without comment. He dismissed the graph and returned to his solo-brainstorming hell. The tech report had been decrypted and was now reprinted in plaintext, but the Orange technician who drafted the report appeared to have taken a leaf from Domyoji’s book; the text was overly colloquial, lacking jargons that people in their line of work took for granted and filled with clumsy, disjointed descriptors that hardly made sense. There were also grammar errors. The overall impression was that the writer had no idea what he was doing. 

Having spent the past few months analysing reports from the tech security department at Orange, Fushimi couldn’t say he was impressed by the way they troubleshoot or the way they justified why they chose to troubleshoot in a certain manner, but their tech reports were okay, and most of the time, Fushimi could manage to get the gist of where the problem was by reading the reports if not by looking at the data capture snippets himself. This latest report, issued by one of the rostered technicians and received by Fushimi almost seconds after, was strangely out of sync with those he had received before, so much so that Fushimi had scrolled back to the top of the file several times, just to check if it was indeed from Orange and not some sort of spam mail.

The Orange logo scanned clear. The word under it was the writer’s codename. The tech security team at Orange went by codenames; some chose nonsensical words, some chose digits or symbols, and the company allowed them to change those names whenever and however they wanted. At Fushimi’s request, they had been keeping the same name for consistency. This particular writer was coded _7253_. Fushimi remembered getting this person’s reports before, remembered they were no different from what he usually received from the rest of them, and knew the report he was currently staring at could not possibly be written by 7253 unless he (assuming it was a he) had lost his mind.

Fushimi took a sip of his soda. It was empty. He clicked his tongue, crumpled up the bottle, took a glance at the bin in the corner a good twenty feet away, and gave up. He would put the bottle in the bin when he left, not now. 

He didn’t feel like talking to anyone working in the information room. They were all working on different things, as far as he was concerned. The technician who came to ask him about the database was in charge of maintaining the database, which had received a thorough upgrade since Fushimi got the non-commercial licence from Orange in winter. Two other people were analysing reports following the investigation of the beta-class robbery. One was filing paperwork that was to be taken to General Affairs later on. Intelligence Division worked whenever they needed to, which was any moment, and discarded the work plan meant for most divs in favour of their own, which was continuous.

Being the only non-Orange person involved in the Orange scandal didn’t help. Fushimi had grown used to calling the case a scandal, despite what the company might allege otherwise. The fact that they wouldn’t admit to having a scandal taking place right under their nose meant that Fushimi needed to work in the dark. How would he explain Scepter 4’s involvement if an official investigation was initiated by Orange? But there wouldn’t be an official investigation, anyway, at least not one likely to credit Fushimi for what he would have to do, because the Gold Clan owned Orange and they were too proud to admit to enlisting the help (or meddling) of someone from another Clan. 

One day, thought Fushimi, one day their pride would ruin them. He wished to witness neither Orange’s downfall nor its frantic hold on prosperity; he merely found their chameleon-like stance laughable and their deliberation a hindrance.

An hour later, after the rest of the div had gone to lunch, Fushimi gave up his latest attempt at wringing traces of meaning out of technician 7253’s report. There was another option, an option he did not want to take but was forced into taking. He took the empty soda bottle and left the information room, turning the plan over in his mind as he went. 

**†**

 

Swords Four went to lunch earlier than most people, in celebration of having Kusuhara on board. They finished before lunch break. Hidaka even brought takeaways (much to Enomoto’s chagrin). 

‘Right,’ said Hidaka as he put the takeaways on Enomoto’s table. ‘Right.’

‘Right what?’

‘You haven’t got a fridge.’

‘I don’t hoard food. Why would I need one?’ Enomoto fought the urge to laugh.

Hidaka pointed at what he thought was a greenish puzzle board on Enomoto’s table, ‘Looks like it needs cooling.’

‘It’s one of Enomoto’s projects,’ Fuse smirked. ‘He wants to find out if it would explode if you dumped chicken nuggets on it.’

Hidaka perked up, ‘Really? I bought extra nuggets. Can I have a go?’

Enomoto snatched the board away, ‘Get lost.’

‘Uhm, Mr Hidaka?’ 

Hidaka turned to Kusuhara, who on entering Enomoto’s room had been hovering in the background, looking tentative.

‘What?’

‘I have my own room, so there’s enough space for things you need to deposit … if you want to.’

Hidaka grinned and patted Kusuhara on the head, ‘Knew you’d be a sport!’

‘I’m not a dog, Mr Hidaka,’ Kusuhara dodged Hidaka’s hand, sounding embarrassed but not indignant.

‘I dunno about you, Kusuhara, but Hidaka is. That’s why he’s desperate to find a pack mate.’

‘Shut it, Gottie.’

‘I’m telling the truth, barky.’

‘Alright, I’m a dog. But I’m well-trained.’

‘Except when you see food.’

Fuse slunk up and rescued the takeaways while Hidaka and Goto tackled one another. ‘Let’s go to your room, Kusuhara, before these two idiots settle over who’s top of the food chain.’

Enomoto, Fuse and Kusuhara were close to the staircase when Hidaka and Goto came pattering after them.

‘I’m starving. Give back my takeaways!’

‘Liar! You just ate a huge lunch!’

Enomoto looked at Fuse and Kusuhara with a grimace that suggested they ought to run for it. The three of them dashed up the stairs, leaving behind them the sound of two grown men arguing with the passion and vocabulary of the average six-year-olds.

 

**†**

 

When they went in for the afternoon training, Hidaka hung back a little with Kusuhara.

‘What’s the matter, Mr Hidaka?’

Hidaka cast him an anxious look, ‘You wouldn’t steal food, would you?’

Kusuhara blinked, ’What do you mean?’

‘I mean what I said. The takeaways are safe in your room, no?’

‘I think so. I won’t eat them. I know they’re yours.’

Hidaka looked ready to combust with relief, ‘I’ll give you half of it when we’re done. We’ll have a feast in your room and laugh at those three muppets queueing and fighting to get to tea. Training is hungry work!’

Kusuhara remembered his trainee days prior to joining the riot squad. 

‘What’s training at Scepter 4 like?’

‘You’ll love it,’ said Hidaka. ‘Ever done kendo at school?’

‘Yes, a little.’

Kusuhara did practise kendo, and practised it exceptionally, or the Captain would probably never have laid eyes on him. However, with Hidaka by his side, he preferred modesty.

‘It’s kendo this afternoon. You won’t get to use your Blue power yet, but it’s fun just doing plain old kendo drills.’

The kendo room was where Swords members practised their most basic moves. Hidaka remembered doing it a lot when he first joined; lately they had been doing more of the fencing and aura control practice, so he missed kendo and was ready to have a blast.

To Swords Four’s surprise, Akiyama was their supervisor.

‘Where’s Lt Awashima, sir?’ asked Hidaka.

‘Lieutenant Awashima is supervising aura control practice.’

Also present were a few Swords One members that Hidaka didn’t know. He stole a look at his squad mates, and found them none the wiser. There were altogether ten people. They hadn’t had such a small batch in quite a while. Before they started, Akiyama approached the clutch of Swords Four members gathered in the corner.

‘Kusuhara?’

Kusuhara jumped, ‘Yes, sir.’

‘Congratulations on joining Swords,’ said Akiyama, smiling. ‘I heard from the Captain that your kendo skills are extraordinary, so I won’t be going easy on you.’

‘Certainly, sir.’

Akiyama nodded and walked away. ’All right, gentlemen. Line up!’

‘Hey,’ Hidaka slammed Kusuhara on the back, ‘you kept that quiet, you sneaky kendo guru!’

‘I’m not - ’

‘Good on you, Kusuhara,’ Goto cut in. ‘Show this big thick block of concrete who’s boss.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Means you’re a big thick block of concrete, full stop.’

‘Get stuffed. I’ll have you know I’ve got a lot of things other than physique. I’ve got depth.’

‘You’ve got as much depth as a paddling pool.’

Enomoto and Fuse snorted with laughter. His hand still on Kusuhara’s back, Hidaka rounded on Goto.

‘You can’t beat me. I’ve got Kusuhara on my side. You’re on my side, aren’t you?’ he looked at Kusuhara in dead ernest.

‘Swords Four, if you please.’

Akiyama’s voice drew everyone’s attention. Kusuhara followed suit as the rest of his squad mates formed lines, then found himself next to Hidaka, who was so tall he blocked the rest of the line on his side.

Kusuhara hadn’t practised kendo the traditional way for a long time. During his stint at the riot squad, Kusuhara had gone through training that resembled endurance tests, but nothing like wielding a bamboo sword. What little kendo skills he possessed had become part of his reflexes that came out without his ever realising it. He suspected it was in this form that Captain Munakata had caught him blocking the Strain criminals’ bullets during their first encounter. To see through his moves and get to the bottom of what cultivated those moves was no easy task, because Kusuhara himself didn’t even register until Munakata mentioned the word _kendo_ to him. Captain Munakata was certainly no ordinary person.

To their disadvantage, most of the trainees had become so accustomed to using their aura that a plain kendo practice was dragging them down. It was the same with Swords Four. They were mixing up kendo with what had been drilled into them during aura control training, so their moves were clumsy and uncoordinated despite being precise and deadly as usual. Having no idea how to manoeuvre the Blue power now residing in him, Kusuhara’s moves were unadulterated and he ended up the only person in the room who received a word of compliment from Akiyama.

‘Captain Munakata was right,’ Akiyama said, beaming. ‘You’re amazing at kendo.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘You will attend other training sessions next week. Fencing and aura control, where you learn how to use your power as a Blue Clansman. I’m sure you will do just as well.’

Kusuhara’s mouth quirked into a smile, which turned into a grimace when Hidaka’s hand landed on his head the moment Akiyama’s back was turned.

‘Let go, Mr Hidaka!’

‘Say you are sorry!’

‘I’m - I’m sorry! what for?’

‘For pretending to be lousy at kendo when you’re actually insanely good!’

‘I wasn’t pretending - ouch!’

Hidaka gave another thump, this time on the back of Kusuhara’s neck. Kusuhara fell to his knees with a grunt of pain.

‘Hey, leave him alone, you brute!’

Hidaka glanced at Goto before turning away, ‘Hands off, Gottie. Kusuhara’s mine.’

‘Your what?’

‘My protege and tutee!’

Kusuhara scrambled to his feet. His bamboo sword was still on the floor and close to Enomoto, who bent to pick it up.

‘He’s not your tutee in kendo,’ said Enomoto. ‘He could knock you out cold within half a round.’

Kusuhara took his bamboo sword and felt Hidaka’s eyes on him. 

‘Are you up for a challenge?’

‘What challenge, Mr Hidaka?’

‘A duel!’

‘Uhm, okay, if you want.’

Hidaka gave him the thumbs up, ‘Here. After training. No chickening out, or there won’t be nuggets for you.’

Swords Four volunteered for clean-up so they could stay back and watch the duel. On principle, duelling between Swords members was strictly prohibited because it ‘ _brings forth men’s innate aggressiveness and threatens the individual’s sense of order and inner equilibrium, which is particularly counter-productive in an organisation such as Scepter 4’_. It had taken Hidaka ten duels and ten consequent talking-tos in Awashima’s office to memorise this reprimand word by word so he could recite it back to her when she questioned him why he wasn’t supposed to duel. 

But that was when he first started; now he was clever enough to not prance about the training ground shouting the word _duel_ in case he was caught by the Lieutenant, or, according to him, _Lt Busty._ The truth was that in private, Swords members still practised one-to-one fencing or whatever they had been training in; it was even encouraged in certain sessions when Awashima was supervising. Hidaka had no idea what brought about the change. Whoever suggested to Awashima they fight for real and without protectors must be a sturdy true swordsman indeed.

Kusuhara looked around, trying not to feel nervous. Enomoto, Fuse and Goto were sitting shoulder to shoulder at the edge of the raised wooden floor where training took place. Kusuhara had a sneaky feeling it wasn’t the duel itself that claimed their attention; it was the fact that _he,_ Kusuhara the newcomer, was participating.

‘Get him, Kusuhara!’

‘Don’t go by rules, Kusuhara, just bang and jab and whack whack whack!’

‘What do you mean, Mr Goto?’

‘There are no rules in this kind of duel,’ Goto explained. ‘You already know we don’t use protective gear. Theoretically Hidaka’s got the upper hand ‘cos he can use his aura while you don’t yet know how. But we’ll keep it strictly aura-irrelevant and just do kendo the traditional way. You _will_ go easy on Kusuhara, won’t you?’ he sounded a bit worried as he looked in Hidaka’s direction.

‘I didn’t promise anything of the sort!’ said Hidaka, grinning from ear to ear. ‘What’s the fun in laying off your opponent?’

Kusuhara agreed. He didn’t think it unfair. Hidaka just had a fuller stock in his arsenal, he couldn’t deny that. But Kusuhara told himself he would catch up later when he started his aura training.

They focused on one another. Kusuhara inhaled deeply, his mind taken over by a flashback from school when he practised against his trainer at the kendo club. Like his old trainer, Hidaka was remarkably tall, which meant he wouldn’t be as agile as Kusuhara, regardless of how hard he tried. This was as much pre-attack analysis as Kusuhara could manage: his was not a strategic nature, and he preferred relying on his reflexes, which were usually sharp enough to take on an edge of itself.

Hidaka lunged. Kusuhara could tell his moves were not entirely bound by kendo, whereas kendo moves were the only thing Kusuhara himself could utilise. Kusuhara saw a flash of Hidaka’s bamboo sword in the air, and leapt forward, his own sword making a fluid swish in front of him and clashing against Hidaka’s squarely above his head. The tip of Hidaka’s sword was inches from his face. Kusuhara swung it aside, grinning, pleased at having blocked a critical head-on blow.

Swords Four cheered and whistled. Hidaka was also grinning, looking a mixture of impressed and mesmerised.

‘Damn, you’re good. Why didn’t I notice during the training?’

‘Are you jealous?’ 

‘It’s too early for you to start getting smug,’ Hidaka pretended to scowl and swung his sword into position. ‘Prepare to greet Mr Pain.’

Kusuhara saw caution in the way Hidaka gripped his sword. He knew he wasn’t going to charge the same way he just did, because doing so meant getting blocked a second time, or worse, exposing himself. How Hidaka might change tactics, Kusuhara had no idea, not being the brainy type he wanted to, but he could seize the moment it took Hidaka to work it out and use it to his advantage. 

His left foot kicked off the moment his brain arrived at this conclusion. Leaping forward like a dart, Kusuhara charged a beeline at Hidaka, his bamboo sword slashing the space in front of him in half. 

Hidaka reacted out of instinct: the attack was so swift he forgot they were duelling in kendo; his left hand let go, leaving the bamboo sword in his right and gripped like a sabre. The base of his sword flashed blue: using only his right hand, Hidaka brandished the sword hard; part of the unleashed aura crept to the blade. 

Kusuhara’s sword banged into Hidaka’s and the blue aura swallowed the tip of both swords. Suddenly the space between them was no longer transparent: every inch of air that the blue aura touched was under Hidaka’s control. With his sword still against Kusuhara’s, Hidaka took half a step back and used the leverage to swing his sword downward. 

The strength, coupled with the aura-saturated air that no longer obeyed laws of gravity, repelled Kusuhara’s sword and caused him to stagger back. Within half a second, however, Kusuhara regained his footing and was on the verge of a countercharge. He was inches from the bluish space around Hidaka, the tip of his sword almost on Hidaka’s forehead, when Hidaka manoeuvred his sword like a long knife and plunged forward, ramming it into the lower end of Kusuhara’s sternum. 

Kusuhara fell hard on his back, then curled into a ball, the wind knocked out of him. For a long while he lay gasping and spluttering, lost to what was happening around him. Someone grasped him by the shoulder and tried to uncurl him; he tried to push the person off but couldn’t move his arms. Then his diaphragm came around and slowly began to unwind. He was able to breathe a little, the panic of suffocation seeping out, only to be replaced by pain, hot and stabbing and threatening to spill out of his chest and stomach.

‘Oh bugger. Bugger bugger bugger! I’ve killed you! Are you okay? are you already dead?’

Hidaka’s face swam into focus. Kusuhara guessed part of the reason he was feeling airtight was because Hidaka was taking up much of the space in front of him. Kusuhara tried to lie flat and tell Hidaka to get away a bit, but the attempt to uncurl himself brought another explosion of pain in his torso and he curled up tighter, banging his knees and elbows on the floor.

‘No doubt about it, Hidaka. You’ve killed him,’ above Kusuhara came another panicked voice that he recognised was Enomoto’s.

‘You’re in for big trouble big time, Hidaka. You used your aura to attack him!’

‘I wasn’t attacking him! He was too good - he charged so fast my instinct just took over - ’

‘You’ve no alibi. From what we saw, you almost skewered him with your bamboo stick. If you’d used your sabre you’d have poked his heart out through his back.’

Kusuhara decided an explanation was due on his part. He made another effort to sit up and ended up kicking something semi-soft. The act elicited a howl of pain from what sounded like a very tearful Hidaka.

‘That’s it, Kusuhara! kick him as hard as you can, he almost killed you!’

‘No, no, not the ankle, please. I prefer being bipedal! ow!’

Kusuhara sat up, breathing hard, willing the worst of the pain away. He was okay now; he didn’t want his new squad mates to think him a wimp.

‘Sorry…’

He managed to speak, then caught a brief glimpse of Hidaka’s screwed-up face before the latter let out a shriek and shoved him into a hug so tight his brain was almost popping from need of oxygen. 

’N-No - Ge’off - ’

‘You’re _alive_!!’

‘He won’t be for long if you keep on with that.’

Hidaka let go. Kusuhara was glad Enomoto came to his rescue. Enomoto appeared to be the most sensible of the four, although his attempt at taming the rest of them seemed half-hearted, as though he knew it wasn’t worth trying.

‘So … do we keep going?’ said Kusuhara, looking around for his sword but finding his vision blocked by feet; they seemed to swarm everywhere.

Above, Goto and Fuse exchanged a look. 

‘You’re a bad influence on him, Hidaka,’ accused Goto. ‘He’ll keep going until you do his head in.’

Kusuhara made an effort to stand up. The others recognised his need for space and retreated a little. Finally on his feet, Kusuhara became aware of the pain in his midriff again and bent over, groaning. He didn’t feel confident that he could block more of Hidaka’s moves if they were to continue.

‘We’ll call it a draw and stop for today,’ said Hidaka. ‘You okay with that, Takeru?’

‘Pardon?’

‘Isn’t that your name?’ Hidaka put his hands on his knees to peer at Kusuhara’s face. ‘That’s what I heard from the installation this morning, anyway. You don’t mind me using your first name, do you?’

‘No, Mr Hidaka.’

Hidaka grinned and ruffled Kusuhara’s hair.

‘C’mon, let’s get back and finish off the takeaways. Let the rest of them do the cleanup.’

‘Hey! You slacker! come back!’

Ignoring Enomoto, Fuse and Goto’s chorus of complaint, Hidaka caught Kusuhara in a headlock, keeping him bent over because it seemed easier on his injury that way, and marched him out of the training room.

‘I’ll make it up to you when we get back,’ he said to the back of Kusuhara’s head. ‘I’ll let you have all of the chicken nuggets.’ 

‘I like nuggets but not this - ’ Kusuhara struggled under Hidaka’s arm, but Hidaka was too tall, and he too disoriented after having been winded and now forced to walk on without knowing where he was going.

‘Great! I knew you’d like the sort of stuff I like! We’re the best of buddies, birds of a feather! What else do you like? I like eating, training, sleeping in, all that sort of thing. Oh, and stealing food off other people’s plates when they aren’t noticing. And I know you’re the same. If you aren’t that’s alright, you’re my protege and I’ll train you to be just like me!’

‘But - Mr Hidaka - ’

‘Shut up. You’ll feel better once you’ve had something to eat. Come this way.’

 

**†**

 

Fushimi released the call button on the console screen, waiting. There was no sound or vibration or indication of any kind that assured him he was likely to get a response. The window showed a horizontal red line on a line graph; once in a while it fluctuated, not much but enough to pass for the cardiogram of a dying person. There was only one explanation for this: he couldn’t get Orange technician 7253.

It was weird. Fushimi was aware of Orange tech security’s work plan. The team of fourteen shared a roster of two people per day round the clock, with one being the primary shift and the other a backup in case the primary person was unavailable. 7253 started his shift at midnight, because the time stamp at the head of his report suggested he transmitted it first thing after he logged in. Unless he spent the whole day sleeping in the lab, he should be contactable by net line at any given moment. 

Net line was also the only way to contact them; they did not use mobiles at work, and Fushimi, not being an Orange employee, was not authorised to access their intercom.

Fushimi pressed the cancel button with a sigh. Calling 7253 was his default alternative; he had thought about it from as many angles as his brain could conjure up, and the answer was that he had no other plan apart from trying to contact the person in question. 

He was sure there had been something wrong on 7253’s end. Although still finding it strange to refer to someone by a string of digits, Fushimi had attached the codename to the image of the person he had never met: an average IT technician, rather dull and nerdy, probably with more goodwill than his brains could afford, who up till midnight had managed to get his work done with less fuss than was expected of him. 

Whoever 7253 was, he hadn’t gone on emergency leave. He would have called in his backup if he had. All evidence pointed in one direction: 7253 was still in the lab, but was for some bizarre reason not picking up what was obviously an important call.

Either that, or the network in the lab had broken down. But one quick check of the net traffic dispelled the suspicion. When prompted with a signal program of Fushimi’s own invention, the connection on Orange’s end was able to respond by sending back a small amount of nonsensical data which was designed to signal reception status. The network was fine. The person on the other end of it was not. Fushimi’s head began to pound as the realisation of what it meant dawned on him.

It probably meant he had to go to Nanakamado for the long-awaited onsite investigation. And he had to do it with Akiyama and Benzai. It wasn’t so much the thought of the investigation itself that irritated him. He hadn’t met either Akiyama or Benzai since his brief visit to their rooms all those months ago. He himself at the time had been unsure if an actual investigation was needed. And after such a long time, the two of them probably assumed it wasn’t. The prospect of having to brief them a second time caused another sharp sting in the vicinity of his right temple. Fushimi rested his elbows on the table and buried his face in his hands; still thinking hard, this subconscious posture of fatigue escaped his notice. 

He remained still for an indeterminate moment, his mind tugged at by the sound of doors opening and slamming shut at a close distance. He supposed it was just him assuming things, and ignored it. He had to think of something else to do, or face the dire possibility of having to visit Orange HQ the next day. It’s a whole weekend gone; it’s beyond outrageous.

‘Mr Fushimi?’

The voice caught him off guard. Fushimi sprang up on a burst of adrenaline, and found a pair of startled hazel eyes looking into his. It was the technician who had asked him about the database before lunch. 

‘What?’

The technician seemed ready to shrink back but thought better of it.

‘I - um - met Captain Munakata out in the corridor when I came in. He’s got things to tell you.’

Fushimi’s heart rate was already beginning to slow down. Then the mention of Munakata caused it to stagnate. 

‘What things?’

‘I don’t know. He won’t come in himself. Said it’s something that concerns you and you only.’

Fushimi didn’t reply, so the technician returned to his own corner, looking relieved at having done his duty as makeshift messenger. Fushimi took his PDA and left the information room. He was jittery because he was out of his depth with the tech report, but he would rather put on a pinafore than acknowledge his quandary in front of Munakata.

‘Sir?’

As much as he wished Munakata didn’t visit him at work, Fushimi couldn’t help feeling relieved at finding his boss outside the information at this particular moment. At least he would be too distracted by their interaction to dwell on what he should do for the rest of the day.

Munakata’s smile seemed less distant than it usually was, ‘I have some intelligence which might be of use to you, Fushimi. I just received a phone call from Tokyo Metropolitan Police CID. The inspector and a team of pathologists are on site at Orange Headquarters.’

Fushimi felt his stomach tighten. 

‘What happened?’

‘An Orange employee, who works in the tech security lab, was found dead early this morning.’

 


	13. Death in the Laboratory

 

_‘Lack of evidence impedes investigation,_

_but lack of trust between collaborating parties cripples it. '  
_

_(Anonymous)_

Fushimi’s stomach gave an uncomfortable lurch. ‘Dead?’

‘Yes. Unfortunately, the tech security lab is not equipped with CCTV, so the police are unable to obtain footage of what was going on since the victim started shift at midnight last night.’

Fushimi remembered his multiple attempts at raising 7253 on the net line.

‘Any idea how he died?’

‘Are you referring to method of killing, or cause of death?’

‘You think he killed himself, sir?’

‘Hardly. Metropolitan CID is gathering evidence. I trust all your communication with the victim has been encrypted?’

‘Of course.’

‘Then it amazes me,’ said Munakata, ‘that they manage to find out about your involvement and then contact me in such a short space of time. The body was found in the morning. I was contacted in the early afternoon.’

Fushimi consulted his PDA. Early afternoon. Three hours ago.

‘What else did they ask of you, sir?’ 

‘Nothing of me. They asked _you_ to go to Nanakamado, on the grounds that you were supposedly the last person to exchange information with the victim. They rang me because the land line at my office can be found in the public directory.’

Fushimi remembered the frustrated unease that had been preying on him all morning. It had dissipated at the knowledge of the incident. He had nothing else to do for the rest of the day.

‘I’ll go then.’

He turned to leave. Munakata, however, remained still.

‘Did you not find it peculiar, Fushimi?’

‘What?’

‘That Metropolitan CID managed to decrypt the victim’s work message within a mere half-day of finding the body, and to trace the source of transmission to us when there is no evidence yet that suggests Strain involvement?’

Fushimi frowned. There was something in Munakata’s tone he didn’t like. Through his ears, it nudged him in the direction of a surmise that had flashed across his mind earlier during their conversation; with his back to Munakata, Fushimi weighed the surmise against Munakata’s subtext. He was a self-professed expert at deciphering Munakata’s subtext now.

‘Do you think Metro Police are keeping an eye on us, sir?’

The longer-than-natural silence that followed roared confirmation in Fushimi’s head.

‘I cannot say I appreciate the idea of being under the spotlight, especially when said spotlight is in the dark and of a dubious nature.’

Munakata’s tone was light-hearted. Walking in the direction of his office, he didn’t stop to look at Fushimi, which Fushimi found a relief because having Munakata look him in the eye would only distract him and make thinking difficult.

‘Good luck, Fushimi.’

Fushimi waited till Munakata disappeared into his office, then headed down the stairway in a sprint. He would go to Orange HQ and meet Metropolitan CID, but after thinking over Munakata’s hint, his purpose of going there would not be innocent assistance in criminal investigation like he had previously assumed.

He would counter-investigate, both in person and online.

 

**†**

Fushimi, on producing his work pass, was ushered into the ground floor guest room at Orange HQ. There he met the chief inspector, a bearded, podgy man in his late forties, wearing small round glasses beneath a mop of feathery blond hair. Fushimi thought he looked like the sort of university lecturer who was far too pleased with himself to prepare lectures that helped students to stay awake. To add to the image of seedy arrogance, the inspector had a surname with way too many syllables, giving off the impression that he invented the name in his unending quest for narcissism.

‘You are the last person to exchange intel with the victim?’ asked the inspector, taking in Fushimi’s Scepter 4 uniform and in particular his sabre.

‘Apparently.’

‘Do you know the victim’s name?’

‘Employees at Orange tech security go by codenames. His was 7253.’

Fushimi didn’t miss the way the inspector looked at him. Every question the man asked had an underlining agenda; he was certain of that.

‘You appear to know a great deal about Orange Electronics,’ said the inspector. ‘Does your job involve dealing with the company?’

‘If you say so.’

Fushimi rather enjoyed the look of annoyance on the inspector’s face. Of course he wouldn’t admit to Munakata that he learnt this sort of evasive parlance from him, and was now reaping the benefit for a change.

‘Why would a Scepter 4 employee get involved with the tech security department at Orange, I wonder.’

‘Why do you care?’

The inspector puffed up with the onset of anger, ‘You do know that assisting the police is every citizen’s duty, don’t you?’

‘I’d be of greater assistance if I was actually _on site_ , Inspector.’

Fushimi was no fan of dead bodies, but he needed to find evidence for his own purpose. And to do that, he needed to go to the lab.

The inspector eyed him for a long moment. ‘Fine, then,’ he said. ‘Come with me. And don’t touch anything.’

The light in the lab was dim and electric blue. It was a room walled with bulletproof glass and roughly the size of two information rooms at Scepter 4 put together, with line after line of bulky super processors that came with traditional non-touchable flat screens without holograph support. The ceiling at one corner of the room appeared higher than the rest, but a closer look told Fushimi he had been tricked into thinking the way he did because the ceiling lights at that particular corner were all switched on, giving off the impression of whitish, expanding space all around it. Two people in blue overalls could be seen underneath, which Fushimi assumed was the reason for full-on lighting. 

The inspector went to the men in overalls. Fushimi followed at a short distance, taking in the computers around him. All of the screens were dark, but a swift glance at certain spots on the workstations told him they were all on and in standby mode. This was typical of laboratory computers.

As he neared the spot partially blocked by the pathologists, Fushimi slowed down. The temperature in the lab was kept low to prevent the computers from overheating, but in this corner it seemed to hover close to the freezing point. Perhaps they did freeze the body a bit, considering it had been dead for almost twenty-four hours.

‘What’s this supposed to mean?’ asked one of the pathologists, with a glance at Fushimi to indicate the cause of the question.

‘Nothing. Just a youngster from the blue police force who might shed some light on the matter at hand,’ said the inspector.

The pathologist looked at Fushimi with suspicion, his eyes lingering longer than was polite on the sabre. Fushimi clicked his tongue and stepped forward. The pathologist backed away, frowning.

‘Easy,’ said the inspector, ‘the kid dares not bite.’ 

Fushimi ignored the derisive tone and came closer. The inspector, as if having decided on humouring him till he hit a wall, stepped aside.

Fushimi took a quick glance at the nearest computer, assuming this was the console used by the dead. The screen was darkened and half blocked by the pathologist, who stood nearby, so there wasn’t much to discover. He turned to the body, which lay on a flat mat and looked ready to be carried away.

His first impression was that the man had been bled out . Under the pale blue-and-white light, the skin was a maggot-like grey and seemed overly abundant for the flesh it encased. It rested in loose wrinkles around the eyes, the base of the nose, the mouth, and also under the chin. Considering the man appeared youngish and on the skinny side, this was strange. There was no trace of blood anywhere. Fushimi had a flashback of seeing badly beaten men with blood gushing from their noses back in his earliest Homra days. He had never seen such a clean corpse before.

‘Cause of death likely to be electrocution,’ supplied the inspector. ‘Ring any bells?’

Fushimi ignored him and addressed the pathologist, ‘You think it might be murder?’

‘At this stage, suicide is equally possible.’

‘Was he found dead lying here?’

‘Yes. We only moved him to put the mat beneath.’

An electric shock so hard, it blasted the victim off the seat he was in, assuming he was in his seat at the time. Fushimi’s eyes sought the nearby computer for a second time. The pathologist seemed to have guessed his intentions and moved aside. Fushimi went up. The computer was on standby. He stretched out a hand to activate it.

‘Mr Fushimi,’ said the inspector, sounding cross. ‘I would rather you did not touch anything. I think we agreed to that before entering the lab.’ 

‘Tsk. If you’re afraid of unwanted fingerprints, give me something to cover up with.’

The inspector puffed up again. Strangely enough, the pathologist who had eyed him with suspicion took out a pair of latex gloves from his overall pocket and gave them to him. With gloves on, Fushimi pressed the button on the screen. It blinked to life with a soft click.

‘Damn.’

There was a message alert in the middle of the screen, asking for a password. It wasn’t completely unexpected; Fushimi swallowed his annoyance and began to think. 

‘Mr Fushimi,’ said the inspector again, ‘please remember that you’re called here to assist me. I do not recall poking around being part of the deal.’

For the first time since he joined Scepter 4, Fushimi wished someone was in this with him. At least the other person could stave off the inspector while he worked things out in his head.

‘I’m here to do what I can, but I don’t think you’ve got any more question to ask me apart from what you already asked in the guest room.’

As he spoke, Fushimi typed something on the keyboard. A new window was brought up, showing blocks of digits and symbols that were arranged like sudoku boards. With the computer locked in admin mode, he had access rights to the window that recorded a list of all the keystrokes ever entered since the last login, presumably by the victim. He needed to work out what the encrypted keystrokes were so he could crack the password. A small part of him was relieved that Orange still used old-fashioned security verifications like a text password. Had they used fingerprint or iris recognition, things would have been a lot more difficult. Maybe he should consider upgrading Scepter 4’s security network so it would use iris recognition…

‘I said no touching, boy!’

Fushimi ignored the inspector and continued to stare at the screen, his fingers on the keyboard. The inspector came up.

‘What are you doing?’

‘Trying to get inside the victim’s computer.’

‘You assume this was his computer just because he was found dead next to it?’

Fushimi had not thought of that. There was no indication whatsoever that the computer he was trying to get into was the one used by the dead man. He glanced at the inspector, who for some reason did not look as smug as he sounded.

‘You have a different theory?’

The inspector studied him with narrowed eyes, ‘Before answering that, I would prefer your explaining to me why you are in such a haste to get inside the victim’s computer.’

Fushimi harboured hidden agendas of his own, and judging by the inspector’s narrowed eyes, so did he. Neither would allow the other the satisfaction of unearthing anything that brushed against his true motive. 

‘The victim was an IT technician, and he died at work. I know enough to be sure of that. There could be clues in his work account.’

Another long, calculating look. Then the inspector threw up his hands.

‘You seem to know your stuff. Go ahead.’

Fushimi returned to the keyboard. From what he could tell, nobody at Metro Police had managed to unlock the victim’s account, which meant they had no solid evidence that Fushimi was the last person to communicate with the victim. It explained their phone call to Munakata: Metro Police simply decided to ring because Scepter 4 was, for some reason, their primary suspect. And Munakata, in revealing to them Fushimi’s involvement, gave him the opportunity to counter-investigate.

Fushimi had heard rumours concerning Scepter 4’s reputation in Greater Tokyo. ‘Monster Copper’ was one of the most unflattering. A lot of those rumours seemed to stem from fear, because Scepter 4 were an alleged police force with special powers that they could use to force people into submission if they wanted to. Fushimi found it amusing that the hearsay didn’t differ much from what he knew about Strain criminals. Perhaps it was the criminals who encouraged those rumours; people needed a scapegoat for their own wrongdoing, and who better to choose than their enemies?

The screen was still blinking. Fushimi kept it activated, his fingers resting on the keyboard. Deciphering encrypted keystrokes was a tricky task, because there were usually a limited number of chances. The most common maximum was three. After three failed attempts, the computer would start to suspect the user’s motives and would then lock itself up to protect the account. If he overrode the lockup by rebooting the system, there was no guarantee the keystrokes would be saved.

He fixed his eyes on the sudoku board. It reminded him of one of the many brain-teaser games he played when he was at (and skipping) school. Suppose each row represents a string of symbols that, when decoded, would translate to one keystroke, then the 17-column board would yield seventeen keystrokes. The final stroke is usually a confirm key - there was a Return button on the keyboard; as per the first sixteen strokes, they might contain the password but could also be random hits, done for no other purpose than to prevent the screen from dimming, or they might contain some unknown pre-login configuration he couldn’t get to figure out unless he unlocked the account.

Fushimi enjoyed those password-cracking games in a gaming context, but didn’t feel like doing it while the inspector watched his every move. There was a different way to test his theories, a shortcut that bypassed trail and error. He turned to the inspector.

‘Call in the backup technician for today.’

‘Getting stuck, are you?’ the inspector didn’t conceal the smugness in his voice. ‘The backup lady found the body, and has already been questioned. I’m afraid to say she’s now too upset to face another round of interrogation.’

Tsk. ’Call in someone else, then. I need someone from the security team. Doesn’t matter whom.’ 

The inspector merely looked at him, ‘Mr Fushimi, please don’t feel obliged to stay here if you can’t keep going with what you wanted to do. You can return to the guest room and wait till I’m finished here.’

Fushimi ignored him and whipped out his PDA. On the contact list he still kept the network analysts from their first consultation in winter; he would ring one of them and demand they call in a security technician.

The call went through. Ignoring the police, he went outside the lab. The analyst then texted him the mobile numbers of two technicians - the best two, according to the analyst. Fushimi rang both of them. They had been informed of their workmate’s death and were told to stay home until further notice; Fushimi called them in.

‘Log in to your work account like you normally do,’ he told both of them, standing back as they sat down in a corner of the lab, away from the death scene. The inspector saw them and came up. Fushimi ignored him. 

Fushimi had asked the technicians to sit one behind another, so he could observe and compare what the two of them were doing. After being told to start, they both activated their respective screens. Two identical windows popped up, showing two sudoku boards. Fushimi asked them to stop. He went to each screen and examined the content of the board closely: they were not the keystroke recorder window he himself had brought up, but they were not password prompts, either. Rather, they looked like customised, interactive monitor windows.

‘What’s this?’

‘Password prompts,’ one explained. ‘I customised it so it looks less like your ordinary password prompt.’

‘You did this to stop other people from trying to access your account?’

‘Sort of.’

‘Does everyone on the team do it?’

‘Nope. Only if you’re feeling geeky enough.’

‘When was your last shift?’

The two technicians both said Thursday. They were a pair, one primary, one backup.

‘Does the computer remember your pre-login keystrokes all the time?’

‘Yes, by default,’ said the technician, bringing up the sudoku board Fushimi had been poring over, ‘this is mine from Thursday midnight sharp. It’s encrypted.’

‘You encrypted it yourself?’

‘No, the company did it. In this lab, the same keystroke encryption algorithm is used on every computer.’

This simplified matters. ‘I don’t suppose you know how to decrypt it?’

‘No, as much as I want to. Company rules.’

Things were progressing at a smooth pace. Fushimi was certain he could crack the encryption if he watched the technicians enter their credentials in plaintext. 

‘Please go on. Just log in as you normally do. You first,’ he said to the technician who sat in the front row. ‘Does the company have regulations on password setup?’

‘Length is six to sixteen. Must include at least one digit. Capitals allowed but not compulsory. No symbols allowed.’

_The regulations are crap; no wonder they are under cyber attack._ ‘Go on.’

The technician looked uncomfortable, ‘Are you going to watch me enter my password?’

‘Mr Fushimi,’ the inspector cut in, ‘just what do you think you are doing?’

Fushimi ignored him again. ‘I need the employees’ credentials to work things out,’ he addressed the technician. ‘You can reset it later.’

‘But - ’

‘Do as you are told,’ Fushimi leant closer, ‘or I’ll tell the analysts you’re unable to fix Orange’s network defect. I have plenty of your reports to prove it. Do you want to get sacked?’

The technician blanched and returned to the screen.

‘Turn around,’ Fushimi said to the inspector. ‘Tech people hate it when non-tech people spy on their passwords.’

Looking livid but unable to find a comeback, the inspector turned. The technician typed in his password, the buttons on the keyboard lighting up as he did so. Fushimi wrote it down on the back of his hand. The technician’s final stroke was on the Return key. Fushimi then did the same with the second technician. With the two passwords printed on his hand, he brought up the keystroke recorder window and compared each password to its corresponding sudoku encryption. It helped that both technicians chose to use up their password allowance: 16-digit strings yielded a lot more findings than 6-digit ones. Having got his answer, Fushimi glanced at the back of the room. The inspector, banned from prying, had returned to the death scene and was telling the pathologists to take the body away.

‘You’re trying to get into 7253’s computer, aren’t you?’ one of the technicians asked Fushimi.

‘You could say that.’

‘He was a good guy,’ the technician sighed. ‘Not sufficiently clever, but good, considerate.’

‘What do you mean by good and considerate?’

‘He stuck to company rules, lab rules and coding conventions better than any of us. He suggested we all use maximum length passwords so hackers are less likely to crack them. And he wasn’t the sort of person who’d kill himself. Someone else did it, it has to be. How did he die?’

‘Go ask the inspector.’

The two technicians rose to their feet. Fushimi hung back a little, fine-tuning what he got from their passwords. He had already put down a scribble of the encryption-to-plaintext chart on his PDA; working it out was easy when he was able to have two people show him the way they did things. After the police had removed the body, he returned to the death scene and typed on the keyboard. 

The victim suggested the team use maximum length passwords, which was sixteen digits. The victim’s own encryption yielded seventeen digits. The final stroke was on the Return key. The conclusion was clear: the victim also used a 16-digit password. It cleared Fushimi’s suspicion that random keys might have been pressed prior to entering the password. On the back of his hand, he jotted down a third string of symbols: the victim’s password in plaintext.

He entered it, then pressed the Return key. The password prompt blinked, once, twice, thrice, then morphed to _loading_. The password was correct, but for some reason it was taking longer to get past the loading screen. It almost looked like the computer was struggling to log in, fighting for connection; it almost looked like the computer had been tampered with.

_Cause of death likely to be electrocution_ …

… _And he wasn’t the sort of person who’d kill himself. Someone else did it, it has to be_. 

A flashback of sizzling wires and cracked screen sent a shiver down Fushimi’s spine. He had remembered his last day as a Homra member. That morning, if Munakata hadn’t arrived at his old flat, he would probably have been killed by the stick figure that mocked him after his j-cube contest. That stick figure on the screen was the avatar of the Green King; he had attacked by transmitting his aura through the computer, which resembled electric current …

The lab computer screen blinked one last time; then the ‘loading’ message was replaced by the desktop. Just at the same moment, the inspector returned.

‘I have no idea what you’re playing at, young man, but I’m not proceeding with my investigation here. This lab needs to be locked up until further - ’

The inspector paused mid-sentence, gawking at the screen.

‘You hacked the computer?’ 

Fushimi pretended not to hear. He was staring at the mess on the desktop, which showed two windows positioned side by side, filling the entire screen. The window on the left showed the draft of the report - identical to the copy received by Fushimi - and the window on the right showed one giant block of nonsensical text, highlighted here and there in fluorescent green; the content of the text was random, as if a mob had been step-dancing on the keyboard.

The inspector leant closer. Fushimi moved sideways, revolted.

‘What was he doing?’ said the inspector. ‘Was he filtering random words from the right-side window to put together what’s on the left? It makes no sense.’

‘It wasn’t supposed to make sense,’ said Fushimi, more to himself than to the inspector.

‘You mean it’s like a random text generator?’

Fushimi looked at the inspector, who took it as a request for elaboration and said, ‘You know those random text generator websites? My girls always muck around on it when they don’t want to get on with their homework. It’s meant to be a prank. You use the website to generate a large block of text. The website then randomly select bits of words to assemble into a nonsensical “essay”.’

Fushimi noticed the inspector no longer sounded shrewd and suspicious. Whether he was faking or being sincere, Fushimi could not deduce. He spared a few seconds to consider the inspector’s words without replying. He was too caught up with his intuition, which was wringing all the evidence into a tight ball and screaming in his ears. Was he being misled by what he was inclined to believe? That the right-hand window was littered with _green_ highlights did not necessarily prove anything. But neither did it _disprove_ anything …

He needed more substantial evidence, which he doubted could be found on site any more.

‘I don’t suppose you’re still into those things?’ the inspector was saying.

‘What?’

The man frowned at Fushimi’s absent-mindedness, ‘I meant those generator websites. They’re popular among schoolchildren.’

Fushimi ignored the last word, not sure if he could stand more belittling without riling up.

‘I’m going.’

‘Going? Where?’

‘Back. Not anything you need to know about.’

‘Not anything?’ repeated the inspector, sounding incredulous. ‘Of course there’s _anything_ you need to tell me! You’ve been acting strange since you got those two technicians to come. You may fancy yourself an inspector, but you are not. Now tell me what you found out. No lies.’

Fushimi walked towards the door, rubbing at the beginning of a headache in his temple.

‘Stop when I speak to you, boy!’

The voice followed him down the staircase and into the foyer. At the revolving door, Fushimi stopped. The inspector did the same, huffing and puffing with a mixture of exhaustion and anger.

‘I wonder why you care so much about what I think, after you said you didn’t want me involved, Inspector.’ 

‘Yes, I did say that. But I also said assisting the police is every citizen’s duty, and that includes people from self-proclaimed semi-police organisations.’

Fushimi coughed out a laugh, ’I’m one of the monster coppers. You don’t want to get on the wrong side of me.’

‘How dare you threaten - ’

‘I don’t suppose you’d let go of Scepter 4 even without calling me here,’ Fushimi cut in, his headache egging him on. ‘You suspect me, so you’d go to any length to put me under surveillance or custody. As if you _dared_. You think I was trying to erase evidence when I broke into the victim’s computer, don’t you?’

From the look on the inspector’s face, Fushimi could tell he had struck a nerve. Part of him wanted to keep goading, but a deeper, more primal part of him wanted to settle things once and for all by taking out his sabre and cutting the man down.

He did neither, and turned to leave.

‘This won’t be the last time we saw each other!’

The inspector’s voice was swallowed by the revolving door.

Fushimi took the tram back, out of deference to his headache, and regretted the decision the moment he boarded. Passengers whispered behind his back, pointing at his uniform and sabre. He shrank into the corner seat at the very back (people moved away when he approached) and rested his head against the window. Trams didn’t vibrate as much as buses, which was why he chose it. There was no disembarking now; he needed to get back to headquarters as soon as he could, to release his aching brain from having to hold in the massive amount of information he had crammed into it since he was at Nanakamado. He didn’t feel like talking to anyone, although Munakata might ask him a few questions. He just wanted to type down everything he knew and go through it after his headache was gone.

He arrived shortly after teatime, the tram dropping him off at the rear gate. On his way to the office building, he passed the hangar, the helipad, then the second garage. He supposed he could do with getting a driver’s licence if he had to travel to Nanakamado more often, but wanting to get a licence meant he had to talk to Munakata, to beg him, even, because he wasn’t old enough to sign up for a road test. He pushed the thought away and went on. 

**†**

Fushimi spent half an hour emptying his brain by typing down everything he gathered. He then sorted the lot by evidence, assumption, deduction. It cured his headache a little; he went to the vending machine and got a bottle of water - fizzy drinks were sold out. A casual sip later, he realised how parched he was, and finished the water in a few gulps flat.

Just as he was about to leave, the door opened from the outside. In came Akiyama, clutching a stack of documents.

‘Oh, hello,’ said Akiyama with a smile, holding the door open, but Fushimi did not go through.

‘What are those documents for?’ he asked, feeling he had a right to know what Akiyama - a Swords member - wanted in the information room out of hours, especially when the intelligence division had already opened a separate computer room for the rest of them to use.

‘Paperwork. The post-training report from this afternoon, and the folder for the new Swords recruit.’

Fushimi remembered being asked if he was using the employee info branch in the database, ‘The same new recruit?’

‘There’s one only.’

‘You can file his folder at General Affairs. The database here is already updated.’

‘Oh, okay. Thanks for telling me. And the post-training report?’

‘On my table.’

Fushimi was starting to feel sick. His stomach felt stretched. It was protesting at the amount of water he dumped into it within such a short time. Luckily for him, Akiyama had already gone into the room. Not wanting to get caught up with questions on what was wrong with him, he left, avoiding the meeting rooms and most of all the Captain’s Office. He took the emergency exit, which led him to the back of the building.

Once sure he was outside with no one around, Fushimi sat down on the stairs to rest, ready to lunge at the nearby toilet if his nausea threatened to overtake him. It didn’t. It had him hunched over, face in knees, muscles tingling, and drenched him in cold sweat. Then it left him. Fushimi swallowed hard and got to his feet. His skin felt cold and clammy from the air conditioning that blew against his back, alternating with pins and needles from the mind-numbing heat that engulfed him from the outside.

It began to rain when Fushimi returned to his room and threw himself on his bed. It was nowhere near his usual sleep time, but he was neither hungry enough to visit the cafeteria nor social enough to be anywhere that wasn’t his room. Lying on his back, he stared at the ceiling. The rain was now pelleting the awning over his window, drowning out the sound of people cheering and shouting in the room above. He used to hear nothing from above whatsoever; did someone just move in?

He rolled over and buried his head under his pillow, dreading the moment the rain let up. He was feeling too antisocial to go upstairs and ask whoever was up there to shut up. He might consider texting them with the threat to wring their necks; if only he knew their mobile numbers.

**†**

Upstairs in Kusuhara’s room, Hidaka let out a cackle. The volume sent the host’s fingers into his ears.

‘It’s past curfew!’

‘Boo to the curfew! You’re too green to know if we even have one.’

‘Kusuhara has a point,’ Enomoto cut in, apparently on the brink of giving up trying to uphold behavioural standards for Hidaka when the latter had had three pints in his system and was now halfway through the fourth.

‘You don’t know nothing, Enomo.’ 

‘My name is _Enomoto_!’

‘Enomo, Enomoto. What’s the difference. Have a sip.’

Enomoto eyed the beer suspiciously. By law he was old enough to drink, but he didn’t like the taste, which he had heard was an acquired one.

‘Just try it, or I’ll call you _Eno_.’

‘Get lost,’ retorted Enomoto, taking a swig, feeling the malty, bitter liquid fizzing loudly against the inside of his mouth. He fought down the urge to gag, and swallowed, the liquid travelling down to settle in his stomach amid a swirl of heat.

‘— Erh!’

‘That’s the spirit, Eno.’

Enomoto wiped his mouth, ‘You said you wouldn’t call me that if I tried it!’

‘Did I? did I, Takeru?’

Kusuhara jumped, alarmed he might be coerced into trying the beer himself. He wasn’t old enough; he didn’t want to break the law.

‘Answer me, Takeru. Did I say - oh bother. I forgot what I was trying to say.’

Kusuhara threw an apologetic glance at Enomoto, whom he had dragged in after Hidaka wanted to have a two-people party in his room. He had assumed two people to be what it literally meant - excluding himself, that is, and Enomoto had seemed the ideal choice because he was by far the most sensible in Swords Four. He now learnt being sensible does not make the top of the food chain. Being the opposite does.

Enomoto dodged Hidaka’s arm and sidled up to Kusuhara on all fours.

‘Sorry about Hidaka,’ he said, reeking of beer. ‘He’s an idiot. All of us are, up to the boss, but he’s the worst when he’s feeling merry. I don’t know why you have to put up with us - him.’

‘Lieutenant Awashima said Swords Four was a boys’ club.’

Enomoto frowned, ‘She’s being nice. I’m surprised she didn’t say brats’ club, which I think better captures what we are. You might want to go call our boss if Hidaka gets out of hand. Tell me you aren’t thinking about doing that.’

‘I - I was, actually.’

‘Not ever. You haven’t met Swords Four’s boss, have you? Mr Domyoji. He’s a genius at his job and a nitwit at everything else.’

‘What’re you two chirping about?’ said Hidaka, still sounding coherent if abnormally excited. ‘Shall I invite the rest of the lads?’

‘Get lost!’

‘Eno’s grumpy! Are you hungry, Eno? I’m always grumpy when I’m hungry. Hey, it rhymes! Hungry makes me grumpy, motto of my life. I think we still have some food left - or shall I order a pizza? You fancy pepperoni, Takeru?’

‘No, no thanks, I’m - ’

‘What’re you lot up to?’

The new voice sent the three of them scattering for their lives. Domyoji appeared, framed in the doorway that seemed strangely lopsided. Then Enomoto realised it was because of what Domyoji was wearing. On his pyjamas were broad, thick paint strokes that ran obliquely from left to right, parallel in their uniformed lopsidedness. To make things even less horizontal, Domyoji held his mouth askew in a big pout. This usually meant he was really, really angry, despite what the paint strokes on his pyjamas declared, which in this case spelt the message _‘_ I HEART blueberry pancakes _’_.

‘You heard me,’ Domyoji repeated with a scowl. ‘What are you doing?’

‘Meditating, boss!’ said Hidaka, ending his salute with a wolf whistle.

Domyoji came up a step further, ‘Meditating my sodding arse! You were being all noisy and barmy whammy and off the rails. D’you know how many press-ups I have to do if someone reports you?!’

‘Why you?’

‘’Cause I’m your boss, that’s why! I take all the blame while you sit there guffawing like a bunch of mad baboons on payday!’

‘Cheers, boss. Now I know why baboons guffaw so much. You’ve met your new staff, haven’t you? This is Takeru - ’ Hidaka pushed Kusuhara forward with a beer bottle. ‘Takeru, meet your new boss, payroll officer for mad, guffawing baboons.’

Kusuhara felt Domyoji’s eyes on him and sprung up in a salute.

‘You’re Kusuhara, aren’t you?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Don’t call me “sir”,’ snapped Domyoji, although he looked happier when they shook hands. ‘Welcome on board. Is this your room?’

‘Yes, s- ’

‘Boss and alpha baboon,’ supplied Hidaka, taking another swig, which didn’t go unnoticed by Domyoji.

‘You’re drinking!’ Domyoji abandoned Kusuhara and fixed his eyes on the bottle in Hidaka’s hand. ‘Is it beer? - And shut up about the baboons!’

‘Yup. Beer. Your favourite.’

Domyoji threw a stealthy glance behind his back as though afraid someone might be watching him. Then he flopped down in front of Hidaka.

‘What does it taste like?’

‘The beer? hmmm, I almost forgot you’re underage, boss. You aren’t to break the law in my presence, so clear off.’

‘Hidaka, you heard me!’

‘I heard you, boss. You down that pint and I call Mr Kamo. Case closed.’

Behind the pair, Enomoto mimed slitting his throat with a slipper. Kusuhara wasn’t sure if he interpreted it the right way; he was finding the whole situation rather funny, something he was sure Enomoto was too sensible to admit.

Domyoji swelled up like a pufferfish, ‘Just because I’m not old enough to drink doesn’t mean you can go on a binge parade on a Saturday night!’

‘You want it on Sunday night?’

‘I want you to put the effing bottle down and return to your effing room!’

‘Language, boss. I can’t be bothered to press the buzzer.’

Domyoji’s PDA sounded. Still glaring at Hidaka, Domyoji took it from his pyjama pocket.

‘Oh, no.’

‘What’s up?’

Domyoji got to his feet and mouthed the word _Fushimi_ before picking up. Hidaka and Enomoto gawked.

‘Domyoji speaking.’

Kusuhara found it incredible that a mention of Fushimi threw both Hidaka and Enomoto into a state of muted shock. Maybe it wasn’t a person’s name but a secret code that demanded absolute silence.

‘What? but how did you know it was - oh, alright. That was my fault. Right. I didn’t mean to.’

The room was now so quiet, Kusuhara could catch snippets of sound from the other end of the phone.

‘ - wasn’t you at first - later - you’re the loudest - is an idiot - ’

‘Yeah, alright, I know. I’m sorry,’ said Domyoji, sounding as if he was squeezing words out through a bout of toothache. ‘The rest are Swords Four members if you’re keen to know. I won’t specify who. Have a go at me however you like, I don’t need you to harass my staff about being quiet after curfew.’

‘ - don’t bloody care - are all idiots - ’

‘Alright alright! I’m sorry! How many times do you want me to repeat that?’ 

There was no other sound. Having been hung up on, Domyoji lowered his PDA with a scowl.

‘Guess that’s the only time I ever heard Fushimi this chatty,’ said Domyoji. ‘Wouldn’t stop repeating the word “idiot”. That’s enough insult to last you lot the rest of the year,’ he took turns glaring at each of his squad members, giving Kusuhara a grimace when it was his turn.

‘Why did Fushimi ring you?’ asked Hidaka, sobering up.

‘’Cause he recognised my voice when I shouted, which I. Don’t. Remember. Doing. At. All. And devil knows how he found my number from devil knows where. Hidaka, get your rear end off the floor and take the empty bottles to the recycles. Enomoto, go back to your room.’

Enomoto hastened to obey, glad his boss had just enough supply of brains to handle what might well have been a life-or-death situation - namely incurring the wrath of the one and only person whose wrath they should never, ever incur. Hidaka, however, pretended not to hear Domyoji and stayed behind.

‘Move it, Hidaka, before I come back to check on you.’

‘Come here, Takeru. Let’s put this away,’ said Hidaka, ignoring Domyoji, who stood seething and pouting for a few more seconds and then left. Kusuhara went up and began to pick up empty beer bottles and dump them in the container.

‘I know who’s top of the food chain now.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I know who’s in charge here,’ Kusuhara rephrased. ‘The person who rang Mr Domyoji.’

‘Oh, that. You mean Fushimi?’ said Hidaka with a laugh. ‘Fushimi’s not our boss. He’s in a different div.’

‘But he told Domyoji to shut up, and you all did.’

Hidaka looked a bit uncomfortable. 

‘Put it this way,’ he said, ‘when someone rings us - doesn’t matter who - it means we’re going out of line. Like I said, it doesn’t matter if it was Fushimi, or whoever you-name-it. Next time I’ll take you out to a bistro where we can make as much racket as we want to. A training camp would be great. I wonder why we didn’t get one this summer.’

The idea of going on a training camp pushed Fushimi out of Kusuhara’s mind.

‘I went on a camp before I started at the riot squad.’

‘Did you? was it fun?’

‘Taxing.’

‘Then it’s fun. We had one last summer. That was when most of us just got in and barely knew each other. I doubt we’d have another one this year, what with everyone getting busier and the Strains getting out of control.’

‘Maybe we’ll have a camp next summer.’

Hidaka eyed him for a moment.

‘We will. Make sure you’ll be good enough to come along.’ 

Kusuhara answered with a cheeky grin.

 


	14. Emotional Needs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I got a few questions from readers on FF but thought I'd answer them here as well in case people had similar doubts about timeline and characterisation.
> 
> 1\. Kusuhara and Fushimi: Fushimi did not join S4 after Kusuhara’s death. He was transferred from intelligence division to special ops squad after Kusuhara’s death. Canon timeline runs this way:  
> \- September: Fushimi joins S4 (LSW; DOB)  
> \- August the following year: Kusuhara meets S4 in action (joins S4 soon after; SIDE:BLUE)  
> \- May the following year: special operations squad established (DOB)  
> \- June: Kusuhara joins special operations squad, dies in action and Fushimi transfers (SIDE:BLUE) 
> 
> 2\. It’s never stated in canon whether Kusuhara and Fushimi were on speaking terms. From Fushimi and Hidaka’s conversation in DOB Ch9, they probably weren’t, so I’ll keep it this way for the story.
> 
> 3\. The name and logo ‘Orange’ appeared in anime season 1. Yatogami also used his PDA to explain the Gold King owns the manufacturer, which may or may not be Orange since his PDA doesn’t have the Orange logo. Everything about Orange in this story (apart from the name) is fan plot.

* * *

_‘Human beings are social creatures. We are social not just in the trivial sense that we like company, and not just in the obvious sense that we each depend on others. We are social in a more elemental way: simply to exist as a normal human being requires interaction with other people.'_

_(Atul Gawande)_

Fushimi slept badly. Images of sudoku puzzles kept popping up in his brain, overlapped with nonsensical passwords and dead bodies with maggot-gnawed limbs. Having forgotten to put down the blinds, he was woken by the earliest morning sun glaring a heated patch over his eyes. He sat up, irritated, then the dizziness from an inadequate sleep struck him and he sank back into the mattress, pulling the blanket over his face.

His head was starting to ache again. Probably from the sun. And his eyes felt so sore he might have slept with them wide open. Through the fabric of the blanket, he could just make out the spots of sunlight on the ceiling. They looked like holes on a canvas; now and then they would throb to the breeze that came from seemingly nowhere, and when they did that, accompanied by the sound of rustling leaves, they reminded Fushimi of the sudoku board where symbols shifted and danced to make deciphering them all the more difficult.

What he saw the previous afternoon continued to prey on his mind. Now that he was awake, the images felt more real than they had been in his dreams. To avoid getting caught up in them, Fushimi started going through the evidence list. The document was on his computer, typed down lest he forgot bits and pieces, but somehow the process of typing only made the memory stand out more vividly. He did not need to go to the information room to confirm anything; everything was before his mind’s eye, sorted and numbered, entry by entry.

The victim was found dead near his workstation, was found dead lying flat on his back with arms pinned to his side. It wasn’t a natural posture, not even for someone who died of electrocution and who presumably did not have time to put up a struggle. The pathologists were with the inspector, who didn’t trust Fushimi from the start, so they might not have been telling the truth when they said the body was found the way it was.

Fushimi closed his eyes against the blanket, fighting down the frustration of being stonewalled by people who asked for his assistance. What could he gather from the two windows on the victim’s computer screen? No doubt the man was working at the time; he logged in at midnight, ticked off the obligatory task of transmitting the report - or did someone transmit it for him after he was already dead? Fushimi was not privy to whatever the pathologists discovered on site; he could not confirm whether there had been a break in, did not think of confirming it when he was there. His instincts screamed murder, while his brain scrambled for proof.

Everything explained itself if he put in two crucial assumptions. One, the pathologists concealed evidence from him, making it look like the victim was lying there pretending to be a log and then died a mysterious death. Two, the victim was killed by a blast of Green aura which might or might not burn down the computer through which the aura was projected. Proving the first could be helpful but not necessary; what about the second? Eventually he would find out if the Metro Police deemed the case unsolvable and passed it to Scepter 4.

Fushimi felt uneasy at the thought that the Green King might have a hand in it. Orange’s network had flaws their technicians and analysts were unable to fix; Scepter 4’s network before the upgrade had flaws that showed unusual and unverifiable traffic; a technician who transmitted troubleshooting reports to Scepter 4’s intelligence division was found dead with no visible injuries on his person; the Green King operated in the dark and via the network and was an expert at concealing his tracks. Fushimi had seen what the man was capable of, had almost become a victim himself.

His thoughts began to grow muddled. He had checked the second window that the inspector claimed was a random text generator. There was no connection between the link and Jungle’s website. And suppose it was the Green King: why would he kill an Orange technician? Was it to provoke Orange Electronics, to turn the network giant against Scepter 4, one of their biggest clients? Orange Electronics vs. Scepter 4 vs. the Metropolitan Police. Must be quite a show for whoever was pulling strings behind the scene.

He rolled onto his side and curled into a ball. It was getting too complicated. He could prove nothing until he received the autopsy report, which was unlikely to happen considering what the inspector thought of him. As for whether Metro Police was stalking Scepter 4, he would find out soon enough. He had thought of a few tests to put through their own security system. He just needed a moment till his dizziness was gone; then he would get up and work in his room. There was no way he was going anywhere near the office building on a Sunday …

The sound of his PDA dragged Fushimi back to consciousness. He had fallen asleep again. He groped under the pillow till his fingers located the source of vibration. The first thing he saw was the time: 10.30 AM. The second thing he saw was the caller’s name; he groaned and tapped the answer key.

‘Fushimi speaking.’

‘Good morning,’ came Munakata’s voice, calm and crisp as usual. ‘I was wondering if you might care to fill me in on what you found out yesterday afternoon.’

‘I will send you an email later.’

The lull that followed was pregnant with unvoiced innuendo.

‘Are you feeling unwell, Fushimi?’

‘Not necessarily.’

‘Are you still in bed?’

‘You don’t have to know.’

‘Certainly not. Please come to my office.’

Fushimi sat up. ‘It’s the weekend, sir. I don’t work on the weekend.’

‘Fushimi, please.’

‘I said I don’t work on the weekend. If you can’t be bothered reading my email, I can fill you in here and now on the phone.’

‘Fushimi, _please_ come to my office.’

‘I’ve told you, sir, I - ’

‘Fushimi.’

‘There’s no way I’m - ’

‘Fushimi.’

‘Fine!! I’ll be there! Give me ten minutes!’

‘Excellent. See you in ten minutes, zero seconds.’

Fushimi hung up, crawled out of bed, and kicked the ladder with his bare foot.

 

**†**

The air conditioning in the office building was in full gear except in the Captain’s Office, where insulation seemed to work wonders on its own. The occasional breeze that came in through the open window brought no trace of the heat typical of a cloudless midmorning in late summer. Fushimi stood facing Munakata’s table, having refused to join Munakata on the tatami mat for tea. Behind him, he could hear boiling water and the tinkle of china. He waited.

Presently Munakata appeared. The scent of green tea preceded him. Fushimi watched Munakata put the teacup on the table, sit down in the chair, push the tea tray to the side like a well-trained and fastidious valet, and silently wondered why and how he had the patience to wait so long.

‘I wonder if you will ever tire of waiting,’ said Munakata, with mild amusement and without looking at Fushimi.

Fushimi deemed it too early in the morning to accuse Munakata of speaking his thoughts without his consent. He was tired and grumpy, and he had been coaxed into visiting his boss on a weekend when neither of them was supposed to be working. The only thing worse than this was night shifts.

‘I’m here to brief you on the Orange situation, sir.’

‘Please.’

No, Fushimi’s brain reassessed the situation as he faced Munakata’s smile; nothing was worse than this. Night shifts are heaven, bless them.

It was not difficult to separate opinions from facts. Fushimi gave an account of what he put down as facts, and kept the opinions to himself. Munakata could form his own hypotheses.

‘What are your thoughts on the case?’

Fushimi met Munakata’s eyes and did not shift.

‘I have a few suppositions, but the evidence are circumstantial.’

‘Which are?’

‘I’ll sort them out if I get a copy of the autopsy from Metro CID,’ said Fushimi, bypassing Munakata’s prompt. ‘I don’t think they are keen to have me in the loop, so I will badger them until they give in.’

‘And what made you think they might not want you in the loop?’

‘The inspector hates me,’ said Fushimi with a harsh laugh. ‘It’s just as well he does, he’s a moron and won’t trust me anyhow.’

‘You have pretty strong views, Fushimi.’

‘I’m not a robot, sir.’

Munakata’s smile was impersonal, ‘I have a theory and a comment. Depending on how you feel, you may wish to hear both, or neither.’

‘I don’t need more theories. Forming theories without concrete fact undermines everything.’

‘And comment?’

Fushimi couldn’t admit he wanted comments even less, especially comments from Munakata, so he said nothing, which he knew Munakata would take as permission to proceed.

‘You appear to be upset about this incident,’ said Munakata. ‘That is my comment. And with comments come suggestions. I suggest you leave it as is until Metropolitan CID call you in for further assistance.’

‘I doubt they would do that.’

‘They will. They are just unable to at the moment. My suspicion is that the prime minister forbids them from asking for help.’

‘What’s it got to do with the government?’

Munakata chose this moment to sip his tea. He seemed to be weighing his answer, or how much he would tell Fushimi.

‘I visited the prime minister some weeks ago,’ he said slowly. ‘The prime minister does not desire Scepter 4’s involvement in Strain cases, which the Metropolitan Police call unsolvables.’

‘But Metro Police can’t solve the unsolvables. What’s the prime minister thinking?’

‘Of power play,’ said Munakata with a predatory smile. ‘The man is afraid of us, which is why he chose to make the first move.’

It struck Fushimi as unusual that Munakata would word his opinion of someone in such an explicit manner. ‘Did the prime minister ask Scepter 4 to step down?’

‘He did. I consented. The prime minister was clever enough to mention his Excellency, so I chose not to object.’

Fushimi considered this, his eyes fixed on the clear green liquid in Munakata’s teacup.

‘You are biding your time,’ he said, looking up at last. ‘You are getting a kick out of sitting back and enjoying the view until the prime minister comes begging for help, aren’t you?’

‘I did not mean to provoke him. However, being a politician, the prime minister picks up hints in a way that few of us can hope to do.’

There was a mischievous gleam in Munakata’s eyes. For a brief moment, Fushimi had a vision of what Munakata might be like if he chose to play the villain; a thrill went through his veins.

‘As I said,’ Munakata continued, ‘there is no need to stress over what is officially an ordinary case the Metropolitan Police is in charge of. Your job at the moment is to find out whether we are under unwanted surveillance.’

‘That’s easy enough.’

‘Excellent. I was also wondering if you might care to do me a favour.’

Fushimi watched warily as Munakata opened a drawer on his table and took out a stack of documents.

‘Paperwork?’

‘No, a roster. I would like you to distribute it among those concerned.’

Munakata flipped the stack so Fushimi could see the heading, which read _Horse-sitting Roster, Version 1.1, August to October_. Beneath was a calendar with names put into hour slots for every morning.

‘Horse-sitting?’

‘It used to be White Bean Tofu Stew-sitting,’ said Munakata, unfazed. ‘I was unable to fit it in without distorting the layout, so I did some tweaking of my own. White Bean Tofu Stew, our Strain horse, needs looking after.’

‘What a name,’ Fushimi didn’t bother to hide the derision in his voice. His eyes skimmed over the roster, then paused at a certain slot.

‘Why am I on it?’

‘Because Ms Awashima thought you might enjoy grooming a horse. You did not inform her otherwise.’

Fushimi read the roster. Some of the names he knew, some he didn’t. It didn’t matter. What mattered was he wanted nothing to do with it whatsoever. He had to plead his case.

‘Can you take my name off?’

‘Will you not give it a go before turning down the offer?’

Like hell, he would. ‘I’m not a stableboy, sir.’

‘Nor is anyone on the roster. You can see Ms Awashima has put down her own name for Saturday shifts, despite her busy schedule.’

Fushimi’s next point - pleading his schedule - was dashed. To avoid admitting defeat in front of Munakata, he tried a different tactic, ‘What exactly does horse-sitting entail?’

’Feeding, grooming, cleaning the stall, and emotional support.’

‘ _Emotional_ support?’

Munakata smiled fondly at him, ’Horses are herd animals, Fushimi. They need the company and support of their own kind. Since we have no other horses at the stable, those on the roster will have to spend some quality time being a friend to the Strain horse and not just a food dispenser.’

Fushimi’s headache returned in full scale. His shift was on Friday week, and like everyone else’s, it was to start at 6am sharp to avoid compromising the regular workday.

‘Why don’t you buy extra horses to keep the Strain company?’

‘I plan to,’ said Munakata without looking away from Fushimi. ‘I will, eventually. I just procured some riding gear, in case the horse needed a bit of schooling.’

Fushimi took the stack of rosters. Not knowing what to say, he resorted to reading the first page again, and heard something in him crumble. ‘Distribute it among those concerned?’

‘Yes, please. There should be enough copies. If you run out, you may find more in my room.’

‘Your room?’

‘Yes, my room. Not my office.’

Fushimi’s first reaction was that he had no idea where Munakata’s room was. Then it occurred to him he had never thought of Munakata as having a room of his own like any ordinary person.

‘I thought your office was your room?’

Munakata gave a surprised look that failed to convince Fushimi. ‘An office is an office. There are things I keep in my room that I do not want people to find in my office.’

This was true to a certain degree and did apply to most people, but coming from Munakata, it seemed to carry undesirable undertones. Fushimi did not remark, simply letting his gaze drop to the stack of rosters in his hand. The copies looked sufficient; he could stick it on people’s doors so he didn't have to play salesman and talk to them.

‘How are things going, Fushimi?’

Fushimi glanced up to indicate he did not understand why Munakata was asking him this, so Munakata elaborated, ‘You look like you need a day off.’

‘Today _is_ my day off.’

‘Yes, but you know what I mean.’

Fushimi did, and would not admit it, ‘I don’t want extra leave. And I don’t want to talk about how things are going with me.’

He knew he sounded out of line. The truth was that the idea of discussing anything other than work made him uncomfortable, and it was worse with Munakata because questions bordering on concern tended to pop up at unexpected moments and catch him unawares. From his peripheral, he could sense Munakata watching him, reading him. He mumbled something that might have been an apology, then fell silent and silently prayed for dismissal.

‘When is your birthday, Fushimi?’

‘Sorry?’

‘November, is it?’

Fushimi merely stared, so Munakata went on in the same self-assured voice, ‘After your eighteenth birthday, you will be allowed as well as required to obtain a driver’s licence. Currently you are one of two people who have applied.’

‘I didn’t apply.’

‘Working at Scepter 4 means it is a requirement, so your name is down regardless of whether you applied or not. As I said, you are one of two people who have applied. The other is Mr Domyoji. Mr Domyoji’s birthday was in June, so he is ahead of you in the first-come, first-serve application process. However, as there has not been a theory test scheduled since June, Mr Domyoji is currently on the waiting list for the test next month, which is also the test you will sit. After that, Mr Kamo will be Mr Domyoji’s road instructor.’

‘I don’t want to be in the same car with Domyoji,’ said Fushimi, throwing subtlety to the wind.

‘You will not. Since no one else is available, Ms Awashima has kindly consented to be your instructor.’

This was way better than Fushimi imagined. At least Lieutenant Awashima had a brain.

‘However,’ Munakata continued, ‘being my second-in-command, there may be spontaneous tasks that require Ms Awashima’s attention at any given moment. Ergo, you will need a backup instructor in case she became unavailable.’

Fushimi had a bad feeling about the way Munakata smiled at him. To seal his doom, Munakata did not pause for long.

‘I will be the backup.’

Fushimi had seen this coming, so his reply was instantaneous, ‘You might have spontaneous tasks as well, being the Captain.’

‘Well spotted,’ said Munakata with undisguised relish. ‘Which is why I appreciate having Ms Awashima as my second-in-command.’

 

**†**

‘What have we here?’

Benzai looked up to find Akiyama pointing at something pinned to their door. They had just returned from lunch out in town.

‘Some sort of notice, I guess.’

‘Horse-sitting roster … As in babysitting?’

‘I hope not,’ said Benzai, casting a swift glance down the corridor. ‘Looks like the others got a copy as well. See who’s _not_ on the roster.’

Akiyama ran a finger down the paper. ‘Not many. Hang on,’ he paused, ‘Kusuhara isn’t.’

‘Being new has its perks, then.’

‘I suppose he needs to focus on his training,’ said Akiyama. ‘Have you been down to see the Strain horse since it came back?’

‘No, but some of my men got dragged in on a makeshift roster with Swords Four. This one looks official. When is yours?’

‘Ours, you mean. It’s tomorrow. 6am. It’s always two to one shift apart from Friday. Fushimi does Friday alone.’

‘Same with the housing arrangement.’

‘Pretty much.’

They took the roster and pinned it to the inside of their door. Akiyama made tea.

‘You want to visit the horse this afternoon?’

Benzai thought for a moment. He had nothing else on.

‘Sure, why not. You coming?’

‘Yeah. I don’t think I’ve introduced myself to the, uh, what’s the horse’s name again?’

Benzai screwed up his face in concentration, ‘Something to do with beans. Lieutenant Awashima’s idea. You know her.’

Akiyama checked the roster, but the horse was simply referred to as _the Strain in question._

‘Heading says version 1.1,’ he said, thinking, ‘which means it’s been modified.’

‘Maybe version 1.0 had the horse’s full name, but for some reason it was scraped off.’

Akiyama returned to his tea. ‘The roster also says we need to look after the horse’s emotional needs. I wonder what it means.’

‘Well, it’s understandable,’ said Benzai. ‘The horse is alone by himself in the stable. We have to make him feel cared for.’

‘You mean like bonding?’

‘Yes, sort of like that. Giving treats, grooming, and training.’

‘How do you train a horse?’

Benzai was stuck. He glanced around the room, looking for clues. Neither he nor his roommate was into horses. Then Akiyama came to the rescue by answering his own question.

‘I guess we have to do some riding,’ he said, switching on his laptop. ‘Suppose riding a horse is analogous to walking a dog. It’s all bonding activity. When you walk your dog, you form a bond. Same with riding a horse.’

‘Hmm, worth a try.’

Benzai shifted closer, and together they began browsing websites on horsemanship.

 

**†**

‘Horse-sitting?’

Fuse looked up from his half-finished takeaway. Enomoto was reading the roster they found on their door. At Fuse’s question, he shoved his glasses up his nose and put the roster on the desk.

‘Our shift is on Wednesday,’ he said. ‘Should be a piece of cake.’

‘If you say so,’ Fuse shrugged. ‘Goto really went to town on it. Before this roster came out, he did one himself and put me on. I hate to break this to you, but the work involves a lot of elbow grease.’

‘How come?’

Fuse brandished his spoon like a shovel, ‘You have to clean the stall and put fresh new hay in. The stall’s larger than you think, and smelly. It’s a pity you can’t train a horse to shower every day. The smell’s always there no matter how hard you scrub the walls.’

‘Well, I suppose that’s part of being an animal,’ said Enomoto with a laugh. ‘It’s like living in a zoo. You’ve got humans to tend to your every whim. But I don’t understand what “satisfy the Strain’s emotional needs” means.’

There was a pause, and then a groan. Enomoto looked up to find Fuse slumped in his chair, spoon between his teeth.

‘What’s the matter?’

‘Emotional needs,’ Fuse whined before dropping the spoon in his bento box. ‘I thought this might be coming, but not so soon.’

‘What?’

‘You’ve no idea what emotional needs stands for?’

‘Not when you’re being all melodramatic about it.’

Fuse swirled in his seat so he was facing Enomoto, ‘The Strain horse is a colt.’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, a colt grows up.’

‘So?’

‘So he will want a girlfriend!’ said Fuse, throwing up his hands. ‘What else can it mean by emotional needs? Do you know where to buy a filly?’

‘I haven’t an inkling.’

‘Nor I,’ said Fuse. ‘But I’m pretty sure emotional needs means that. Otherwise why would they build so many stalls? I see a foal nursery on the horizon. Scepter 4, Special Police Force, Equine Midwifery, Trainer and Provider of Strain Thoroughbreds. We will never be out of business.’

Enomoto shoved his glasses up his nose for a second time.

‘I’m sure the Captain will look into buying a filly himself if it comes to that. There are other people on the roster. I’d better go and ask what they think.’

‘I’m sure they agree with me. Emotional needs. What are your emotional needs, Enomoto?’

‘Mine? I'm not telling you.’

‘I’ll tell you mine,’ said Fuse, putting the lid over his now empty bento box. ‘I know it’s not allowed in the dorm, but I’d like to have a dog. We are sort of like the police, aren’t we? We ought to have police dogs.’

‘Just wait till the day a Strain puppy pops up, then.’

Fuse made a face. ‘Hidaka’s on the roster too. Go ask what he makes of emotional needs. Here’s hoping he doesn’t write a ballad on his passionate and sordid affair with everything edible.’

Enomoto gave his roommate a smirk before leaving the room. Goto and Hidaka’s room was next door. The roster was not there, which could only mean the residents had already got the news and taken it down. He knocked on the door. There was no reply. He knocked again, louder this time, wincing slightly as his knuckles went numb from the impact. Then he pressed one ear to the door, hoping to catch some sort of noise from within.

The sound of wood scraping the hinge caught Enomoto off guard. It came from the wrong direction. Enomoto stared at the solid unyielding door in front of him, then turned to the source of the noise. His breath hitched in his throat when he saw Fushimi’s face peering from behind his own door, a few feet from Goto and Hidaka’s.

Enomoto wanted to apologise, but his mouth seemed to have forgotten how to form words and merely stayed open like that of a dying fish. He and Fushimi stared at each other. Even in shock, Enomoto noticed how tired Fushimi looked.

‘Be quiet,’ said Fushimi in a tight voice, before disappearing behind the door. Enomoto flew back to his own room and threw himself in the corner. Fuse frowned.

‘What happened? Did someone die?’

Enomoto waited till his breathing returned to normal. ‘Fushimi,’ he managed to say. ‘Just, just got caught. By him.’

‘What do you mean, caught by Fushimi - ?’

Fuse stared at Enomoto. Then his features scrunched up in a fury of comprehension.

‘Did Fushimi bully you?’

‘What? No, ‘course not!’

‘What did that little brat do to you?’

‘Nothing!’

Unfortunately, Enomoto’s vehement denial only served to fuel Fuse’s suspicion.

‘You can tell me, Enomoto. I’m your roommate. I won’t laugh.’

Enomoto breathed in deeply, steadying himself, ‘It was nothing. Honestly. Nothing happened. I was knocking on Hidaka’s door. Fushimi heard it and asked me to keep quiet. End of story.’

Perched in his seat, Fuse eyed Enomoto for a long time, like a bird of prey sizing up a competitor. Then he relaxed.

‘I’ll have your word for it,’ he said with a touch of resentfulness. ‘I just don’t see why everyone’s keeping up this head in sand attitude about Fushimi. The brat’s a nuisance. I don’t believe it when you said he can’t stand noise. Homra is practically a volcano.’

Enomoto remembered he hadn’t told Fuse about the previous night.

‘It’s not about Fushimi. Boss said we ought to keep quiet, and I forgot.’

‘Like I’d believe that. So you didn’t get Hidaka?’

‘No. He and Goto must be out.’

Fuse stretched, ’What are Sundays for? You fancy a walk outside?’

Enomoto thought for a moment. He wasn’t sure if he was up to facing the possibility of another run-in with Fushimi on the same day.

‘Nope. You go ahead. I want to watch telly.’

Fuse grimaced and left the room, taking his empty bento box with him.

 

**†**

‘As of this afternoon, I’ve been sold into slavery.'

Kamo peered at Domyoji over the book he was reading. Domyoji was holding a sheet of paper and had adopted his most tragic voice, which usually meant he was waist-deep in his umpteenth trouble of the day.

‘What have you done again?’

At Kamo’s question, Domyoji breathed hard as if preparing to launch into speech, then folded the paper in his hand into a plane and threw it at Kamo, who caught it before it could collide with his forehead.

‘Attempted murder of roommate à la paper aviation disaster. That’s one more offence on your list, Domyoji,’ said Kamo, unfolding the paper. ‘Horse-sitting roster?’

‘See where I highlighted it.’

Kamo saw the two names circled out by a marker. He and Domyoji were in for the same shift on Tuesday morning.

‘So we have to babysit this Strain horse, haven’t we,’ said Kamo, giving the paper a quick perusal. ‘Not as devastating as I thought.’

‘It’s every bit as devastating as _I_ thought!’ Domyoji came up and sat on Kamo’s bed. ‘I’m sure it’s a conspiracy. White Bean Tofu Stew conspired with Lieutenant Awashima.’

‘What for?’

‘Well, White Bean Tofu Stew hates me, so he wants everyone in Scepter 4 to hate me and grovel at his feet.’

‘I don’t remember grovelling to anyone,’ said Kamo. ‘So the conspiracy is a failure. Honestly, Domyoji, it’s high time you learned to take up some responsibility. Looking after a horse really isn’t that bad.’

‘But it’s not some random horse-next-door horse, it’s White Bean Tofu Stew! And he hates me, you know how he does. He’d kick me as a reward for my looking after him. I call that slavery. Or in legal terms, working-my-head-off-without-pay-and-getting-socked-on-the-ego charge against White Bean Tofu Stew.’

Kamo put down his book to study Domyoji’s face. The hoof-shaped double bruise was long gone.

‘White Bean Tofu Stew doesn’t hate you,’ he said with practised patience. ‘He kicked you twice for good reason. First time was because you scared him with a weapon, and second time was because you were standing in his way when all he wanted to do was stretch his legs. It doesn’t mean he hates you.’

‘He might kick me again!’

‘He won’t if you behave yourself. Horses are herd animals, and where there is a herd, there is a pecking order. Since we don’t have other horses, White Bean Tofu Stew might consider us his herd mates. So there must be some sort of pecking order going on, at least in his view of the situation.’

Domyoji watched Kamo with eyes like saucers. ‘So?’

‘I don’t speak horse language, but I can tell you’re rather low on the pecking order in White Bean Tofu Stew’s opinion. That’s why he doesn’t like it when you approach the stable. He’s sort of telling you to get out of his land.’

‘You mean he’s a territorial little bastard.’

‘If you have to put it that way.’

‘Anything I should do to climb up the social ladder a bit?’

Kamo thought hard. Before his divorce, he used to read storybooks to his daughter before she went to bed every night. One of those books was on horses. He didn’t remember much apart from the pictures.

‘I guess you could butter him up. You know, with food, belly rubs, ear scratches, or whatever it is that a horse likes.’

Domyoji’s eyes flicked between the roster and Kamo’s face. ‘Is that what they mean by emotional needs?’

‘Emotional needs?’

‘It says on the roster that we have to satisfy the Strain’s emotional needs.’

‘It makes sense,’ said Kamo. ‘Being a herd animal, White Bean Tofu Stew needs company and friendship. It’s decided. On Tuesday morning, I will clean out the stall and everything, and you will do the feeding and grooming and buttering up,’ he sat up to look at the roster. ‘Pretty much everyone is on the list. Not bad. Your entire squad is on.’

Domyoji snatched the roster from Kamo. ‘All but one,’ he said. ‘Kusuhara is spared because he wasn’t here when White Bean Tofu Stew legged it. I always think this horse-sitting business is meant to be part of my punishment. My squad is dragged in simply because I’m their boss.’

Kamo did not comment. He had seen how well Swords Four got on with the Strain horse. Domyoji obviously had a big mountain to climb when it comes to redeeming himself in the eyes of the world.

**†**

Akiyama and Benzai stood in front of the stable, facing the horse. Strange enough, there was a name plaque above the stall. The words _White Bean Tofu Stew_ were carved in elegant cursive. There was no way they could have missed it, although memorising it was a different matter.

‘He’s grown,’ Benzai gestured at the horse. ‘He’s a lot taller than I remembered.’

At this remark, White Bean Tofu Stew gave a soft nicker and breathed into the side of Benzai’s face. Benzai shuddered and took a step back. Akiyama laughed.

‘I think he likes what you said.’

‘Yeah, what else do you expect from a nose nudge like that,’ said Benzai, wiping horse saliva from his ear. Akiyama unfastened the gate.

‘Are you going to walk him now?’

‘No,’ said Akiyama, ‘just checking out the equipment so I know what I will be doing tomorrow. You should do the same.’

Benzai followed Akiyama into the stall. There was a small shelf at the back. Next to it on the ground was a roll of hay, a shovel, and two buckets. On the shelf was a smorgasbord of tools, which they recognised must have something to do with various stages of horse care. There was even a saddle on the wall, smelling of polish.

‘I wonder who bought all this,’ said Akiyama, laying a hand on the saddle.

‘Could be Lieutenant Awashima. She loves the horse,’ said Benzai. ‘Human Strains we have here don’t get this sort of treatment.’

Akiyama knew what he meant. They had both been to the underground prison where Strain criminals were interned. The interrogation room was also there, although they had neither used nor seen anyone use it.

White Bean Tofu Stew snorted and turned his head to peer at them.

‘I think he wants to go out,’ said Benzai, observing the horse.

‘We will let him out first thing tomorrow morning.’

‘No, Akiyama. I think he wants to go out _now._ Give me the rein.’

Akiyama found it on the shelf. Benzai took it to the horse and fastened the end of the rein to the bridle.

‘Are you letting him out?’

‘What else is there to do? It’s not against the rules.’

Akiyama had to agree. There was no rule whatsoever on when or when not to let out a Strain horse. White Bean Tofu Stew was the first non-human Strain to come under Scepter 4’s care, and he hadn’t committed any crime. And everyone seemed to like him. Akiyama followed the horse out of the stall, taking the saddle with him. It was surprisingly heavy.

‘If we are taking him we might get to go for a ride,’ he said, laying the saddle across the horse’s back. White Bean Tofu Stew pawed the ground with a foreleg, but did not show any sign of discomfort at having the equipment fastened to his back.

‘I heard horses can’t be backed too young,’ said Akiyama, as a precaution.

‘But he’s had people riding him before,’ said Benzai. ‘That little girl from the Red Clan.’

‘We are adults, though. We have to check if he’s okay with an adult on his back.’

Then came an awkward silence during which they looked at each other and struggled to convey feeling through thoughts.

‘You want to have a go first?’

‘Do you?’

Benzai shrugged, ‘I’ll go first. You can leave a note at the stall saying we are taking the horse out for a walk, so people don’t come to find the stall empty and raise a breakout alarm.’

Benzai mounted the horse while Akiyama wrote the note. It was a bit tricky without the stirrups, but Benzai had years of Defence training behind him, and climbing walls without footing was one of the core tasks. White Bean Tofu Stew remained still throughout the process, which was a great help.

‘Good boy.’

Benzai patted the horse on the withers. White Bean Tofu Stew tossed his head and shifted.

‘Stay still.’

White Bean Tofu Stew stilled. Feeling a mixture of proud and grateful, Benzai took the rein and give it a rightward tug. The horse took the hint and turned towards Akiyama, who was pinning the note to the fence.

‘Akiyama.’

Akiyama turned, taking in the look of Benzai on horseback, and smiled.

’Not bad for a horse’s emotional needs.’

Benzai grinned. They left the headquarters through the back gate, keeping their pace to a saunter. There were large patches of parkland on this side of the premises. They walked along the footpath, avoiding the traffic, which they were afraid might startle the horse.

Akiyama walked next to them on foot, ‘You know, Benzai, if you are wearing your uniform, you could pass as mounted police.’

‘Which is what we’ll be doing tomorrow morning, I guess.’

‘We won’t have much time. Shift is at 6am, and work is at 9, between which we will have to walk the horse, clean the stall, put out fresh hay, fill the water dispenser, and feed him up,’ Akiyama patted White Bean Tofu Stew on the neck.

‘Let’s see how long a walk around the parklands takes.’

 

**†**

 

Fuse met Goto and Hidaka halfway between the office building and the front gate. Hidaka asked, ’Where’s Eno?’

‘Holing up in the dorm. Where’s Kusuhara?’

‘Off training,’ Hidaka shrugged. ‘It’s not exactly the right time to join Swords. He’s got a lot to catch up on.’

‘You guys have seen the horse-sitting roster?’

‘Yeh,’ said Goto, sounding bubbly. ‘You’re going to love it. I know I do.’

‘You just enjoy being a drudge for animals. Why aren’t you a zookeeper?'

Goto ignored Fuse. ‘Let’s go visit White Bean Tofu Stew. My mates from Swords One have been feeding him all sorts of stuff. The colt just gobbles down everything that comes near his snout.’

‘Like what?’

‘Well, mostly fruits and veggies, you know, horse-friendly food, but also stuff you wouldn’t normally feed a horse,’ said Goto. ‘I’m sure I’ve seen ice cream stains around White Bean Tofu Stew’s mouth a few times.’

Hidaka laughed, ‘It’s a pity he can’t tell you what he can or can’t eat. He may understand what we are saying, but he can’t speak our language.’

‘What language does a horse speak?’ asked Fuse.

Goto wrinkled his nose, ‘Is this a joke or are you seriously asking us?’

‘Both.’

‘A horse speaks Horse, of course,’ said Hidaka in what he thought was an impressive, professor-y voice.

‘No,’ said Fuse. ‘Horses speak Horseradish. And why would you feed a horse radishes?’

‘To help him get fluent in Horseradish’, Goto rolled his eyes.

‘Exactly.’

To vent their feelings on Fuse’s joke repertoire, Goto and Hidaka looked at each other and silently reached an agreement to pretend the person in question didn’t exist.

‘The horse’s gone,’ said Fuse, pointing at the empty stable the moment they arrived.

‘He’s off to cram school for Horseradish classes,’ said Hidaka, pretending to sound wistful; Goto went to the fence.

‘Akiyama and Benzai left a note,’ said Goto. ‘They’re taking the horse out for a stroll. They’re doing the shift tomorrow morning, so they want to do a bit of rehearsal.’

‘Well, that’s their idea of spending an ideal Sunday afternoon. What do we do now?’

Hidaka looked at the note, then at his two companions. ‘Let’s plan a raid on the training room so Takeru doesn’t feel too left out. We should get Eno to join us.’

‘Fat chance,’ said Fuse. ‘Enomoto’s too scared to leave his room now. Fushimi bullied him.’

‘What?’

‘He wouldn’t give me the details, but there can’t be any mistake in that. Enomoto didn’t do anything. He just knocked on your door ‘cos he wanted to ask what you two make of the roster, and Fushimi stuck his head out of his room telling Enomoto to shut up, and Enomoto flew back to our room looking like a pack of hungry hellhounds were after him.’

Goto’s and Hidaka’s reactions were very different. While Goto looked a mixture of scared and incredulous at the news, Hidaka shrugged as if it was no big deal. ‘Well, if Fushimi did that, it means Eno was making noises, simple as that. I’ll be quiet when I go invite him.’

Fuse looked at Hidaka like he was looking at a lunatic, ‘Why are you always on Fushimi’s side?’

‘I’m not on his side,’ Hidaka’s voice was defiant. ‘Why are you always picking on him?’

‘I’m telling the truth. Fushimi was bullying my roommate!’

‘I don’t know about the bullying bit, but I do know Fushimi’s your pet hate. He isn’t mine, so I’ll go ask Eno what really happened,’ Hidaka put his nose in the air. ‘You coming with me, Gottie?’

‘Nope.’

Hidaka took turns looking at the two of them.

‘Honestly, guys, we don’t have to be friends with Fushimi, but it doesn’t mean we’ll have a go at him whenever we can just because it’s fun. It’s not. Would you pick on him if he was in Swords with us?’

Fuse just crossed his arms. Goto, however, made a vague gesture with his shoulders that seemed to say ‘there’s no arguing with you’.

 


	15. Infiltration

  
  
_‘The case,’ said Sherlock Homes as we chatted over our cigars that night in our rooms at Baker Street, ‘is one where, as in the investigations which you have chronicled, we have been compelled to reason backward from effects to causes.’_  
  
_(Sir Arthur Conan Doyle - ‘The Adventure of the Cardboard Box’)_  


  
The first month of autumn brought a trace of slight chill to the evenings. Oblivious to all this, Fushimi spent every minute of his waking time in the information room, hunched over the giant holograph screen, sleuthing for new clues and scanning Scepter 4’s intranet for signs of infiltration from the Metropolitan Police. Despite his effort in upgrading the security system, he found nothing, which could only mean the Metropolitan Police were no longer trying to stalk Scepter 4 via the already flaw-ridden Orange network. Either that, or they had other things on their mind which demanded too much of their attention.  
  
Regardless of their schedule, there was one thing that Fushimi guessed might be the cause of the Metropolitan Police’s apparent inaction. True to his word, Fushimi bombarded Metropolitan CID with daily emails demanding they fax him a copy of the autopsy. And so far no reply had come through. The death of an ordinary IT technician might not be anything newsworthy, but it was no ordinary technician. It was an employee at Orange Headquarters, the nationwide electronics giant with immaculate service and reputation. And with police spokespeople being secretive about it, social media took over. Soon speculations began to flood every platform: murder was mentioned, followed by conspiracy against the government. Fushimi was not surprised the Metropolitan CID couldn’t get around to answering his email, and was not feeling particularly sympathetic.  
  
On a Friday morning in late September, Fushimi tore himself out of bed at the ungodly hour of 5.30 am for his pre-work shift at the stable. Friday was fast becoming his most hated day of the week.  
  
He unlocked the stall and shoved himself in through the narrow space between the wall and White Bean Tofu Stew’s flank. His shoulder scraped a makeshift bulletin pinned to his right. On it was a new sheet of paper he didn’t remember seeing the previous Friday. He squinted in the semi-darkness.

  
**Awashima’s Horse-friendly Diet Plan**  
  
_To whom it may concern,_  
  
_Please find below a list of food items sorted into two categories - Red Light and Green Light. Please be aware that you should ONLY provide Green Light food items without exceeding the daily calorie recommendation befitting a colt of four years or younger. Red Light foods are banned on all occasions. Unwarranted feeding of treats is also prohibited._  
  
RED LIGHT FOODS

  * Ice cream or similar dairy product
  * Pasta or similar carbohydrates, dry or cooked
  * Any form of seafood, cooked or raw
  * Any form of animal protein
  * Tofu or any form of soy product
  * Chocolate bars
  * Lollies, polo mints, or any form of sweets
  * Energy bars or drinks, flavoured or otherwise
  * Crisps, chips, biscuits
  * Cakes, pancakes
  * Dog food or cat food
  * Any takeaway or leftover from the cafeteria
  * _Any food you want to secretly dispose of simply because you hate it_



  
GREEN LIGHT FOODS

  * Hay, grass
  * Apples or fruits of a similar nature e.g. pears, peaches with stone picked out
  * Carrots, swedes, or any vegetables of a similar nature
  * Store-bought horse treats
  * Oats, corn (NO sugar-coated morning cereals)
  * _Red bean paste_



  
  
Fushimi barely reached the bottom of the list when a nudge in the small of his back caused him to stumble forward. He staggered sideways, swearing, and caught White Bean Tofu Stew in the middle of initiating another nudge with his nose.  
  
‘Get away!’  
  
White Bean Tofu Stew shrank to the other side of the stall, peering at Fushimi with dark, mournful eyes with the air of a scolded puppy. Fushimi went to the back of the stall, put on a pair of latex gloves, and took the brush. He hated grooming, but he couldn’t stand the smell of horse mixed with mud, manure and zoo. And this time he didn’t come unprepared like he did the previous few weeks.  
  
Fushimi led White Bean Tofu Stew out of the stall and fastened the lead to a nearby tree. Then came the annoying procedure of getting a bucket of water. When this was done, he dipped the brush in the water, and took out two bottles from his pocket, one a body wash and the other a deodorant. He laid the deodorant on the ground and upturned the body wash over the bucket. The sharp scent of citrus fruit permeated the air. Fushimi stirred the water with the brush until it became opaque and bubbly. Next to him, White Bean Tofu Stew snorted and stuck out his tongue, looking expectant.  
  
‘It’s not soda. Don’t drink it.’  
  
White Bean Tofu Stew bent his head and nudged the bucket with his nose. Fushimi laid the sodden brush on the horse’s withers and began scrubbing, followed by a liberal spray of deodorant over the area he had scrubbed. Throughout the process, he could feel the horse’s eyes on him, following him. He knew the horse was a Strain, knew the horse was probably trying to engage him in a chat or beg him for treats, so he avoided the horse’s gaze and swept on, his mind already on the work he would have to do once he got to the information room.  
  
At this stage, Fushimi knew he had to carry out investigations of his own. Unbeknownst to Munakata, he did not leave the Orange case as is; without solid evidence, all he could work with were conjectures and intuitions, which had been screaming in his head on how he should proceed ever since he returned from Nanakamado. It wasn’t so much the death of the technician that got him so worked up; he was concerned that the Green Clan’s real target might be Scepter 4’s intranet, which was his project and he would do anything he could to stop anyone from spoiling it. He had to go deeper into Orange’s network infrastructure to get more clues. And to do that, he had to break into Orange’s data centre.  
  
He went down on his knees to get better access to White Bean Tofu Stew’s feet. Without paying attention to what he was doing, he lifted White Bean Tofu Stew’s left foreleg and scrubbed the hoof all over. At this, White Bean Tofu Stew lowered his head until his snout was inches from Fushimi’s face, and licked him.  
  
‘Yuck!!!’  
  
Fushimi fell back on his haunches, smearing horse saliva off his forehead. It was beyond disgusting. He glared at White Bean Tofu Stew, who snorted softly and then burrowed his nose into Fushimi’s shoulder. Fushimi felt a slick, wet something soaking the fabric of his shirt and leaving hot, slimy traces on his bare skin, and scrambled out of reach as fast as he could. White Bean Tofu Stew stood still and fixed him with a look of mingled reproach and affection.  
  
Fushimi wanted to threaten the horse like he had threatened the inspector at Metropolitan CID, but words deserted him as he looked White Bean Tofu Stew in the eye. This was why he hated animals; they crept up to him without asking for permission and spread their hairs and body fluids everywhere, and the worst thing was he couldn’t scold or threaten them because they wouldn’t understand him anyway.  
  
He unbuttoned his shirt cuff and rolled back the sleeve, ready to give White Bean Tofu Stew an uppercut if he chose to greet him with his tongue again. White Bean Tofu Stew eyed his bare wrist for a moment, then turned his head to the other side. Reluctantly, Fushimi picked up the brush and resumed cleaning White Bean Tofu Stew’s hoofs, and meanwhile tried to get back to what he had been thinking: where was he …  
  
Right, the infiltration. He could strengthen Scepter 4’s network security as much as he wanted, but he needed to know if the Green Clan was after them so he had a better idea of what they were in for. His right hand grabbed the horse’s shin while his left felt under the shoe. To access Orange’s data centre, he would have to break into their intranet yet again. Luckily the fruits of his last attempt still survived; he could build on that and try to get a comprehensive picture of Orange’s network structure. Then he would go there and sneak into the data centre and feed his sniffer program to the processors and see what would happen. He had been running a detection program to try to deactivate the communication ports at Orange’s data centre. He might need to ask Akiyama and Benzai to come with him. Accessing a company’s data centre without consent might trigger an alarm; he needed someone to ward off unwanted assailants while he focused on what he wanted to do …  
  
He was cleaning the horse’s right foreleg now. The underside of the shoe felt more jagged than the left one. He bent lower and lifted the leg, wiping moisture off the hoof with a dry cloth. The shoe appeared to have silver studs attached to both sides. He checked the other three; none of them had those strange studs. White Bean Tofu Stew could walk and trot and canter, which meant the studs didn’t bother him.  
  
Still keeping White Bean Tofu Stew’s right foreleg lifted, Fushimi used the torchlight on his PDA for a better look. When his PDA was inches from the shoe, it started to beep with a customised frequency. Fushimi set it that way so he could detect if there were unwanted digital signals coming from Scepter 4’s wireless network. Why was it beeping next to a horseshoe?  
  
Again Fushimi tried the other three shoes, and the PDA stayed silent. Bemused, he went to the shed and got a spanner from the toolkit. He propped up the suspicious hoof and gave the silver studs a tap with the spanner. The sound was metallic, yet had a strange ringing effect as if he had tapped on something much more substantial. He gripped one stud and twisted it hard. It came loose with a soft click. His PDA beeped louder. Feeling himself on the verge of discovering something untoward, he worked around the shoe till all the studs came loose. The last to drop to the ground was the shoe itself. At this, his PDA started beeping so hard it was throbbing. He turned the thin piece of metal plate and checked the inside.  
  
What he saw was a small, round nub, rather like a mini battery. It shared the same texture with the silver studs. Fushimi scooped them together and spread them out on his hand, and with his free hand, he grabbed his PDA and prodded the studs with it. Immediately the battery-like nub responded, blinking green from a thin shard of glass etched to the side. Meanwhile, a message flashed on Fushimi’s PDA screen, signalling the detection of unregistered electronic current.  
  
The nub was a tracking implant.

  
**†**

  
Back in the information room, Fushimi used pins, staples, screwdrivers, and a series of makeshift tools till he broke the implant off the horseshoe. He then ran the device alongside the studs under the 3D scanner. Once their images were uploaded to the computer, he fed them through Scepter 4’s Strain monitor program. The report came swiftly enough. It was an ordinary set of location detecting implant with the studs acting like receptors on an octopus’s tentacle. The monitor did not detect any Strain-positive reaction, so the implant was not put in to help the horse control his own superpower. It was simply there to keep track of the horse’s whereabouts. Fushimi took up his PDA.  
  
‘Awashima speaking.’  
  
‘This is Fushimi. Lieutenant Awashima, have you been keeping track of the Strain horse on your phone or using any sort of similar device?’  
  
This forthrightness from Fushimi did not sit well with Awashima. ‘What do you mean?’  
  
‘Have you been tracking the Strain horse so you know where he is at any moment?’ Fushimi rephrased.  
  
‘Why would I? We have him in the stall, and we have the breakout alarm if he ran away,’ said Awashima. ‘What is the question for?’  
  
‘Nothing.’  
  
‘How was the morning feed? Did you stick to the diet plan?’  
  
‘Yes.’  
  
Fushimi thought it best to keep his discovery a secret for the moment. He wasn’t expecting Awashima to admit to using a tracking implant, either. It just wasn’t her way of doing things. Apparently, the implant had been on White Bean Tofu Stew before he came to Scepter 4. Someone, presumably the blacksmith, fixed the horseshoes while White Bean Tofu Stew was still living on the farm. And then someone put in the implant. Maybe it was someone who knew White Bean Tofu Stew was a Strain and was trying to exploit his powers.  
  
Fushimi rotated the 3D scan on the screen. Enlarged fifty times, the picture picked up every tiny pixel he couldn’t see with the naked eye. He wasn’t particularly surprised when he saw the Orange logo at the corner of the device. Orange owned every conceivable kind of electronic device, after all. But Fushimi couldn’t deny there was something slightly unnerving about the revelation. Orange, the supposedly reputable Orange, was producing and distributing tracking implants that were not sold the usual way on the market. If they could be used on animals, they could also be used on people.  
  
He turned the device in his hand, studying it. In light of what happened during the past few weeks, the discovery of a tracking implant seemed to be taking everything a step further. The Gold Clan ran a research centre in Nanakamado that produced superpower-restraining devices, and Scepter 4 had a steady supply of them. Those devices were put on Strains to suppress their power or help them control it. They were not there to do the tracking, not even on Strain animals.  
  
No matter how he looked at it, there was something fishy about this Orange-made implant. Fushimi dropped it in his pocket and left the information room.

  
**†**

  
Directly under the office building, there was a dingy, low-ceilinged structure that was built along the lines of Tokyo’s underground sewage system. This was where Scepter 4 kept their Strain criminals. The cells were cramped, arranged side by side, with a name plate on each door that could be slid sideways to reveal a stripe of narrow space, which the prisoners would use as a lookout. The supply of superpower-restraining devices were kept in the interrogation room, along with a standalone processor that can be used to detect the hidden property of pretty much every kind of electronic device. Previously, Scepter 4 had used this processor to scan Strain criminals’ belongings, because there had been cases where some people would inject their power to ordinary mobiles or tablets and then project their power through those devices.  
  
Fushimi unlocked the interrogation room with his PDA and went in. The processor was on standby. Fushimi stood in front of it, taking in its blinking signal at the corner of the screen. In appearance it resembled a supermarket auto checkout. The scanner protruded from beneath the screen and pointed at the transparent desktop two feet below. Fushimi activated the screen and put the tracking implant on the desktop. A red beam shot out from the scanner and shadowed the implant. For a moment nothing happened; then the screen blinked into life.  
  
A picture popped up, fuzzy around the edges, and as it grew clearer, it became a graph, showing details on the battery within the implant. Except that there was no battery. The inside of the device was hollowed out save for a few wires. It had no battery, and yet it had signals of its own and was working. The power supply had to come from somewhere.  
  
The graph zoomed in on itself as more data was scanned in. There was a huge spike dated a few hours old; that was when Fushimi was grooming White Bean Tofu Stew and accidentally let his PDA near the horseshoe. Apart from that, the rest were minor fluctuations. What caught Fushimi’s attention was the property of the graph. It showed battery status, despite the fact that there was no battery in the implant.  
  
To test his theory, Fushimi put his PDA directly on top of the implant. The reaction was immediate. On the processor screen, the thin red line rose to the top of the graph and remained there while the implant blinked bright green. Meanwhile, the battery bar on Fushimi’s PDA started shrinking. The signal was also becoming weaker. It didn’t take long before his PDA flashed a warning and the screen went into auto-lockup due to low battery. Fushimi took his PDA and slowly removed it from the implant. The further away it went, the slower the battery bar shrank and the lower the red line sank on the graph.  
  
The implant didn’t have a battery because it acted like a parasite. As long as it was near an electronic device, it would recharge by sucking power and signal off the device. The device could be someone’s PDA or MP3, or a vending machine, or even the public wifi out in the street. Fushimi checked his PDA for a second time; a few seconds of close contact was sufficient to drain the battery. He went to the control panel in the corner and switched off the power supply of the entire underground prison. Everything was plunged into total darkness, and yet the implant glowed bright green, living on the power it stole from Fushimi’s PDA and apparently fully functional.

  
**†**

  
When Fushimi returned to the information room, still fingering the tracking implant in his pocket, he was so preoccupied with his own thoughts that he ran straight into another intelligence technician.  
  
‘Tsk.’  
  
The technician flattened himself against the door, watching Fushimi with wary eyes. Fushimi realised he was the one to blame, and grumbled something that somehow resembled an apology.  
  
‘Lieutenant Awashima just left,’ said the technician. ‘She was looking for you.’  
  
Fushimi checked his PDA. No ignored calls. ‘Any idea where she is?’  
  
‘In the computer room for non-intel employees.’  
  
Fushimi returned to his desk. Awashima wanted him, yet did not ring him, so whatever she wanted him for was not urgent business. He took out the tracking implant from his pocket and swiped his PDA on the console. The 3D scan he had taken of the implant still occupied a large part of the screen; behind it, a separate window lay in sleep mode, surrounded by faint, electric blue highlights. Fushimi dragged it to the forefront and read the content.

  
  
============================  
**Comm. ports @ DtCntr, OrngNtwk**  
  
Tot. No.: 4 (internal)

Port I: DOWN  
Port II: DOWN  
Port III: DEACTIVATED  
Port IV: UP  
============================  


Translated into plain human language, the window displayed the status of the four communication ports at Orange’s Network Data Centre. Fushimi’s detection program had managed to knock down the first two ports and deactivate the third, because he had designed his program such that it acted like a combination of virus and spyware. What he had done was unethical but not strictly illegal, so he had plenty of wiggle room in case he was caught. With the ports now open, he was free to either transmit his sniffer program via the network and into one of those ports, or travel to Orange HQ, sneak into the data centre, and transmit the sniffer on site using his PDA.  
  
It was up to him to decide which option to take. His eyes fell on the tracking implant lying innocently on his desk. It was as though the sight of the implant made the decision for him. Although they had never met in person, Fushimi wouldn’t put it past the Green King to manipulate anything that travelled via the network simply because his power allowed him to. Anything that left the terminal for the wider digital world outside was prone to exposure, and the last thing he wanted was to have his sniffer program exposed.  
  
What came next was slightly more irksome. On paper, Fushimi was going to Orange HQ for unofficial investigation, so in theory he should ask Akiyama and Benzai to come along just like he promised all those months ago. In practice, however, Fushimi would choose operating alone whenever he could. What irked him was that this time, having someone with him would probably guarantee a greater chance of success for his upcoming ‘investigation’, while the loner in him rebelled and tried to put him off the idea.  
  
By the time the majority of the intelligence division signed in to work, Fushimi had made his decision. He would infiltrate Orange’s data centre alone. He didn’t need Akiyama or Benzai. He had thought of a perfect plan that involved neither of them and there was a safe way out in case things went wrong.  
  
He left the information room. The more he thought about it the more promising it felt. As long as he didn’t tell anyone what he was up to, he would sneak out of Scepter HQ and then act according to plan. As long as he wasn’t caught by -  
  
‘Where are you going, Fushimi?’  
  
Fushimi experienced something close to electric shock at the source of the voice. Then the shock gathered in the pit of his stomach and congealed into a morass. Damn. He was caught by the one and only person he couldn’t lie to.  
  
‘To the stable, Lieutenant Awashima,’ lied Fushimi, knowing Awashima would see through it. ‘I left something in the stall and I need to get it back.’  
  
Awashima’s eyes narrowed for the briefest moment. ‘You can get it later,’ she said. ‘I have been looking for you. You are to attend a uniform measuring session this morning.’  
  
‘Uniform measuring?’  
  
Awashima frowned, ‘I trust you still remember what I said to you about uniform the previous year?’  
  
Fushimi did remember. He only repeated the keywords because part of him was still reeling from having been caught while he was about to sneak out on an infiltration mission. At least Awashima didn’t seem to suspect him of lying.  
  
Awashima took Fushimi’s silence the wrong way. Her frown deepened and she continued, ‘You have the rest of the day to do whatever it is that you need to do. Come with me.’  
  
There was no way out. Fushimi began to follow Awashima downstairs and out of the office building. He had to humour her so she wouldn’t suspect him of trying to go solo on an ‘investigation’ for which she had long forced him to include Akiyama and Benzai. Uniform measuring, as annoying as it sounded, shouldn’t take too long.  
  
‘Where are we going?’ he asked in his usual deadpan voice.  
  
‘Where we did the measuring last year.’  
  
Fushimi had a sound memory when occasion called for it. Things concerning clothes wasn’t one of the occasions.  
  
‘My current uniform feels all right,’ he negotiated.  
  
‘You never know until you get the tape on you. What are your plans for the rest of the day?’  
  
Fushimi hadn’t expected the sudden change of subject. This signalled the futility of trying to wriggle out of whatever Awashima wanted with him. He had to keep humouring her by answering her questions with lies. Lying to her didn’t seem so daunting when she had her back to him.  
  
‘I don’t go by plans. I just do whatever needs to be done. I’ll be in the office all day,’ he said.  
  
‘How is the Orange situation?’  
  
Fushimi tried to convince himself that Awashima asked him this because the Orange scandal had been all over the news. ‘Pretty disheartening for them,’ he said. ‘It’s not my concern any more.’  
  
‘I thought you were helping them with the murder investigation?’  
  
‘Not unless they want me to, no. They stonewalled me from the start.’  
  
‘Have you been doing your own investigation?’  
  
_Yes_. ‘No.’  
  
‘I was expecting the opposite. In case you need to go to Nanakamado, ask Akiyama and Benzai to come with you. I trust you still remember the deal?’  
  
_Tsk_. ’Yes.’  
  
Fushimi stared at the back of Awashima’s head, half expecting to find eyes hiding behind her tied-up hair. She had to have x-ray eyes on the back of her head to see through what he had been thinking, and dreading. Either that, or she had been working with Munakata for so long, Munakata’s mind-reading quirk had rubbed off on her.  
  
Awashima didn’t talk to him again until they reached the back building where most of the file clerks worked.  There Fushimi was ushered into a dingy equipment room, where a careworn-looking clerk-turned-fitter draped the tape measure down his spine, then his shoulders and waist, before subjecting him to a height rod. He had grown, although not as much as he did during his final year at Homra. Getting taller or not wasn’t something he found particularly interesting, anyway. Throughout the process, Awashima stood at the door as if ready to stop him in case he decided to suddenly run away. When it was over, Fushimi joined her by the door while the fitter filled out the forms.  
  
‘Can I leave now?’  
  
Awashima glanced at him, ‘Later.’  
  
Fushimi saw the fitter look up to beckon at him, and scowled. At this, the fitter seemed to shrink a little, and turned towards Awashima, who took the hint and glared at Fushimi. Still scowling, Fushimi approached the fitter, who handed him the finished form. Fushimi read it.  
  
‘What’s this supposed to mean?’  
  
Ignoring his grumble, Awashima took the form from him. ‘It means what it says. You will receive a new set of uniform within five business days, during which you may wear your own clothes to work, but not to any official Scepter 4 business outside headquarters.’  
  
Fushimi thought for a moment. His infiltration to Orange HQ wasn’t officially Scepter 4 business, so he was okay with that.  
  
Back in his room, Fushimi changed into casual clothes. They were among the few items he didn’t throw away at the end of winter, and now that he was told he had grown, they seemed to fit better despite having plenty of room to spare when he last wore them.  
  
He looked in the mirror, and saw chronic lack of sleep in his own reflection. It’s settled: he would hole up in his room for the weekend and sleep his fill. He took the sabre and left the dorm. Sneaking out of Scepter 4 Headquarters seemed a lot easier now that he was in plain clothes. People would just assume it was his day off. For extra precaution, he would leave from the back gate.  
  
He was two steps from it when the trial in the shape of Awashima descended for a second time.  
  
‘I just came back from the stable,’ she opened her mouth the moment she caught his eye. ‘Everything is in order. Have you found the thing you were looking for?’  
  
Fushimi stood rooted to the spot, and said nothing, as Awashima’s eyes searched him from head to toe like the most sentient of security scans.  
  
‘I thought you said you were going to stay in the information room all day?’  
  
And still Fushimi said nothing. He wasn’t the sort of person to make a grab at self-defence when he knew it wouldn’t help. Only his fingers betrayed how he felt: they were worrying the hem of his shirt.  
  
Awashima caught on with the efficiency of a sniffer dog, ‘Why are you carrying your sabre? Are you going somewhere?’  
  
Her eyes narrowed. Fushimi met them without flinching, and yet down at his side his thumb was close to being strangled in his shirttail.  
  
‘What are you up to, Fushimi? Tell me the truth!’

  
  
**†**

  
Orange HQ was a cylinder-shaped building mounted on top of a base structure that looked rather like a stadium. Separated into quarters - called ‘sectors’ - this pizza-like structure housed an assortment of offices and function rooms where Orange hosted most of its client meetings. The branches that dealt with finance, management and development - including the tech security lab - were up on the lower floors of the building itself. Beneath the stadium of sector quarters, the underground carpark stretched a wider rectangular large enough to house several cricket fields side by side. Beneath the carpark lay a mass of murky, semi-dense structure that caused the coordinate on Fushimi’s PDA navigator to light up like a Christmas tree, giving off the impression that the structure was a warehouse of sorts that contained bulky digital equipment.  
  
Akiyama and Benzai glanced at each other, before following Fushimi to a dingy-looking pipe that appeared to run from the base of the sector quarters right below the ground.  
  
The pipe Fushimi chose was wide enough to accommodate two fully-grown men shoulder to shoulder. If he was infiltrating, he wasn’t going to choose proper entrances or exits for fear of CCTV cameras. As he used his PDA torch to check the inside of the pipe, he could feel Akiyama and Benzai watching him from behind. The pair of them hadn’t so much as spoken a word to each other while on their way here, which struck Fushimi as pretty unusual. The moment Awashima caught him at Scepter 4’s back gate, Fushimi had resigned to his fate that Akiyama and Benzai would be contacted and coming with him. They did, to his dismay, and yet they didn’t talk behind his back, which was a relief (although he would never admit it).  
  
Having made sure nothing was blocking the pipe, Fushimi got down on all fours. His head and shoulders went in, then his torso and the upper half of his sabre. The interior of the pipe was slippery with moisture; it ran along the side of the building and was used to collect water from the central air conditioning. Despite running vertical to the ground, it stretched to a steep yet manageable forty-degree slope from the point it extended down the basement carpark. Good news for any infiltrators out there, thought Fushimi wryly.  
  
‘Fushimi?’  
  
Fushimi paused and turned, the knees of his jeans damp with water. He poked his head out of the pipe. The fact that Akiyama called him wouldn’t normally elicit such courtesy on his part; he just happened to realise that he needed to check the pipe’s opening, to make sure he wasn’t blocking it by going in.  
  
Akiyama took Fushimi’s reappearance as a response, ‘Do we have to go in there?’  
  
From Fushimi’s position and posture, all he could see was Akiyama’s knees, so he spoke to them, ‘You don’t have to.’ By ‘you’ he meant both of them.  
  
The knees bent. Akiyama’s face appeared; he was looking into the pipe, frowning. Then Benzai joined him.  
  
‘I was hoping you could tell us a little bit about this investigation,’ said Benzai, looking at Fushimi. ‘You don’t have to explain every tiny detail, we understand you have work specific to your div. But we need to know what we are in for,’ he gestured at the pipe in front of him.  
  
Fushimi clicked his tongue. He was finding it increasingly hard to dismiss Akiyama and Benzai, let alone slight them, because they sounded like Awashima when they were talking shop and being serious, which was around the clock.  
  
‘I’ve already told you,’ he said. ‘This isn’t the sort of investigation I talked to you about months ago. This isn’t even Scepter 4 business.’  
  
Akiyama looked at him and seemed to notice his plain clothes for the first time, ‘So you are infiltrating Orange to get intel on your own?’  
  
‘I guess that’s the only explanation,’ supplied Benzai, somehow foreseeing Fushimi wouldn’t answer.  
  
‘I know you don’t like it,’ said Akiyama. ‘But we’re here, and we can’t just loiter around pretending we are just innocent onlookers. We will go in after you.’  
  
‘We’ll keep a distance if that’s what you prefer,’ said Benzai, with a shrug of his shoulders more conciliatory than noncommittal.  
  
Fushimi’s knees were starting to hurt from having to bear most of his weight against the cold, hard surface of the pipe. He shifted and his entire body disappeared into the shadow. Akiyama and Benzai followed him.  
  
It grew darker and danker as they went in deeper underground. Fushimi kept consulting his PDA navigator while keeping the torch app at full blast. Soon his PDA screen was dimming; he stopped to tap it and felt heat spreading to his fingertip. The battery wouldn’t last very long if he kept on like this.  
  
Behind him, Akiyama and Benzai also stopped. Both had their PDA torch on, but neither was using a navigator.  
  
‘I think we are almost at the bottom of it,’ said Akiyama, his voice echoing off the sides of the pipe and returning with rippling whispers. Fushimi felt the vibration through his shoes.  
  
Akiyama was right. The pipe was growing wider, was fast becoming a low-ceilinged tunnel. Benzai was already attempting to straighten up, but the girth of the pipe was yet to tolerate that.  
  
Fushimi checked his navigator. It said they were approaching the murky block of structure that contained digital equipment. Keeping his head bent, he took a few strides until the dot that marked his location merged with the target dot on the PDA screen.  
  
He was out of the pipe and at the entrance to what appeared to be a fish tank made entirely of stainless steel. The temperature here was kept low, rather like the tech security lab; for a moment the stillness seemed solid and pressed heavily on Fushimi’s head and shoulders as he stood upright with a sore lower back, then the stillness was broken as his senses picked up a gentle yet steady humming almost like an undercurrent: the humming of large, complex computer processors. Fushimi went through the entrance, followed by Akiyama and Benzai.  
  
The gleam of polished stainless steel ambushed them. Panels of switches and electric circuits, all painted a metallic grey, blinked and beeped at them from every nook and cranny. Fushimi went up to a panel and studied the contents closely, somehow feeling he had been thrown inside a computer hard drive.  
  
Akiyama and Benzai were examining the walls and panels further inside the room.  
  
‘There are tunnels leading out of it,’ came Benzai’s voice.  
  
‘They must be the “normal” way out,’ came Akiyama’s.  
  
Fushimi checked his PDA. Now that he was on site, the map on the navigator zoomed in and expanded. The inside of this underground structure was like a labyrinth. He had imagined Orange’s data centre to be another giant tech security lab, with bulletproof glass on all sides and rows of desk computers within. He had imagined it all wrong.  
  
Either that, or this wasn’t the ‘official’ data centre actually used by Orange. Switches and circuit boards were computers broken down to their most elementary components. People didn’t dismantle their computers unless they had a sound reason for it; neither did companies that wished to survive on a market where simple graphic user interfaces were the key.  
  
Akiyama came up, and stopped when he was a good four or five feet from Fushimi. Fushimi looked at him.  
  
‘Is this the place you were looking for?’  
  
Fushimi glanced around. It wasn’t quite, but there were inaccuracies to every prediction. He might get Akiyama to do something useful while he stayed here figuring out how to proceed.  
  
‘Try finding out if there are CCTV cameras or unlabelled passageways if you can,’ he said.  
  
‘Unlabelled?’  
  
Fushimi realised Akiyama didn’t have the map of the place.  
  
‘Give me your PDA.’  
  
While Fushimi transmitted the map, Benzai approached them.  
  
‘I don’t want to be a wet blanket,’ he said, giving Fushimi his PDA when prompted, ‘but I just had a look at one of the tunnels and it feels a bit unpleasant.’  
  
‘How?’ asked Akiyama.  
  
Without answering, Benzai addressed Fushimi, ‘Are you sure this is the right place?’  
  
Fushimi handed the two of them their respective PDAs, ‘It may or may not be, but it’s got electronic devices that can connect to Orange’s intranet at its deepest layer. I can access the right place and do what needs to be done from here.’  
  
Akiyama checked his PDA, ‘Did you plot the map by yourself?’  
  
‘I used spyware. It’s the only way.’  
  
Fushimi had expected shaking heads and tut-tuts at the revelation. He got none.  
  
‘So it’s settled. You stay here and do what you need to do. We will explore the tunnels and see if there are cameras and secret passageways,’ said Akiyama, more to himself than to Fushimi or Benzai. Before they left for the nearest tunnel, Fushimi heard the pair of them discuss how they should share the workload by splitting up.  
  



	16. Out of the Dark

_Things may happen when least expected._

_(Karma-Phala theory in Indian Buddhism)_

  

Akiyama and Benzai vanished into different tunnels. Soon their footsteps grew muffled and were then swallowed by the steady murmur of the circuit boards. Now left on his own, Fushimi once again surveyed the room he was in. The switches and circuits he saw were the most rudimentary parts of a massive computer. He had to figure out where the communication ports were so he could ‘inject’ his sniffer program to Orange’s intranet.

Fushimi knew a fair bit about computers on a software level. At the moment, however, he was surrounded by hardware, bits and pieces that constituted the innards of what most people would call a computer. Another glance around the room convinced Fushimi there wouldn’t be any CCTV camera, and he could see why. It would never occur to Orange that someone might drop in and mess around; the place made no sense except to maybe the selected few who were trained in the most esoteric branch of computer science.

There was no screen or keyboard anywhere. The panels, like framed pictures in a gallery, had lines of caption under them. A closer look told Fushimi they were written in binary code. He checked the first panel he saw the moment he entered: mounted on the right-hand side of the stainless steel wall, it featured rows of glass flaps that resembled see-through drawers. Behind the flaps were switches of various shapes, colours and sizes, some lit up and glistening, some blinking and flashing. Like the switch board in a hotel room, this panel appeared to host most of the major switches for the entire area. Fushimi examined the binary code beneath: sixteen digits in length and all zeros, which would translate to zero in ordinary decimal. Unlike humans, computers count from zero. This had to be the first panel.

The next panel was slightly more confusing in terms of content. Two circuit boards were etched one on top of the other, the top one all lit up and humming, the bottom one dark and apparently off. The binary code read 01. So the panels in this room were numbered anti-clockwise. To confirm it, Fushimi checked the binary code on every panel. There were twelve in total, the last one bringing him again to the entrance. Apart from panels 00 and 01, the rest all had a mixture of switches and circuit boards on. Out of panels 02 to 12, 08 stood out because it had a strip of digital screen sandwiched between flaps of switch protectors.

Maybe it was the ‘screen’ of the entire system. Fushimi stopped at panel 08 and studied the content closely. The ‘screen’ was a murky grey, rather like the screen on old-school digital wristwatches. The surrounding circuit board was on, studded with resistors of every colour, like Smarties sprinkled over a square green plate. The text in between appeared to be serial numbers. Fushimi found a grey area at the corner of the board where no resistors were planted; instead, it had a line of long, narrow levers that looked like black keys on a piano. A string of symbols was printed on top of each lever; each string was the ASCII representation of an alphabet letter. It was the secret ‘keyboard’.

Fushimi closed his eyes and mentally converted the ASCII code to the letters he needed, which were S, T, R _._ It took him a while to find the three letters on the linear-shaped ‘keyboard’. Then he typed STRT - shortcut for _START._

The screen flashed bright blue. Then text appeared, spelt in black pixel. It said ‘ _UNKNOWN CMD_ ’, which meant _unknown command_. Fushimi tried _BGN -_ shortcut for _BEGIN -_ and was again given the unknown command feedback. Undeterred, he tried _EXE._ The screen flashed again, and a new message popped up in lowercase and smaller print.

 

_executing … executable not found. please specify name and format._

At this, Fushimi’s heart began to thump against his ribcage. He leant his forehead against the stainless steel and closed his eyes, again searching his brain for the ASCII equivalent of the command he needed to take advantage of this tiny breakthrough. He opened his eyes and typed _SHUTDOWN._ This was a daring test.

The screen flashed again.

 

_executing …_

_WARNING: execute shutdown.exe? may cause unwanted system failure. please check backup history. proceed anyway?_

_options: 1. proceed (P)     2. return (R)_

It came to Fushimi in a flash of understanding. If he chose _proceed_ , the entire Orange network across the nation would collapse. Not an ideal scenario for his plan. He had chosen the shutdown test to see if he could run programs this way; the warning suggested he could, so in stead of _shutdown,_ he would type the name of his sniffer program in the same manner once it had been transmitted. He typed _return._ Now all he needed to do was find the communication ports so he could connect his PDA.

The ports were on panel 11. Four tiny, rectangular sockets, numbered 00 to 03 in four-digit binary code. In Fushimi’s detection program, they were numbered 01 to 04 in Roman numerals, so he had to be careful with his choice of port. Fushimi tapped his PDA screen. It came to life with a soft beep, warning him of a dying battery. He had to be quick. Heart hammering, he aligned his PDA with port one - 00 on the panel, and plugged it in.

The panel screen flashed twice.

 

_unknown_ _external device detected. contains unknown executable. execute?_

_options 1. yes (Y)     2. no (N)_

Fushimi’s heart hammered so hard he was starting to hyperventilate. He put a hand against the stainless steel wall to steady himself, and then typed _yes._ His PDA screen flashed a blinding blue, vibrating; meanwhile, the message on the panel screen was replaced with ‘ _transmitting …’_ Fushimi stepped back a little and fixed his eyes on it, waiting.

After what felt like an eternity, the message ‘ _transmitting_ …’ became ‘ _executing’._ The transmission had been successful. Fushimi unplugged his PDA, and saw the battery bar shrink before his very eyes. As the panel in front of him hummed and digested his sniffer program, his PDA screen went out and he was plunged into total darkness. All he could make out was the flashing red, green and blue of the running circuits and the ‘ _executing’_ message on the panel screen, accompanied by a static beep-beep-beeping.

A lightless abyss.

Dread filled Fushimi with an intensity that sent his heart shooting up his throat like a bullet and he almost chocked on it. He had no idea why being in the dark in what seemed like a computer graveyard was winding him up so much. He had no memory of being claustrophobic or afraid of the dark whatsoever, and even though every particle in his body was filled with adrenaline, his brain mocked him by carrying on with assessing the situation in its usual cold and detached manner. The panel screen was still lit up, the message _executing_ still flashing. Unless it changed into something else, there really wasn’t much he could do.

Fushimi forced his body to stay still and upright. His brain chose not to come to its rescue, so he had to keep it in check in case his legs betrayed him and ended up either giving out or carrying him off until he smashed head-first into a wall. In this state he couldn’t so much as recognise the steady humming of the circuits around him any more; all he could hear was his own frantic heartbeat as the air around him stilled and coagulated. Then, behind him and slightly to his right, the air stirred with a movement that was not from his own body. Fushimi reacted, the tension in his limbs climaxing in a response so fast his brain was almost oblivious to it. A knife, brimming with aura, shot out from his right sleeve, pierced the air, and ended its trajectory with a sickening squelch, followed by a grunt of surprise that quickly turned to a gasp of pain. Something, or someone, lost its balance and fell at Fushimi’s feet. Fushimi jumped back, shocked. The aura on the knife was fading, a cracking, sizzling mixture of red and blue; at Fushimi’s feet, the shivering mass of black tossed and writhed with the blind desperation of a wounded animal.

‘Akiyama?’

Fushimi was surprised at how steady his voice sounded. Now that he realised who it was, tension began to ebb from his body. For a while he wondered why Akiyama didn’t answer to his own name; then he realised Akiyama was unable to. From the sound he made, Akiyama seemed to be struggling to get to his feet.

‘Getting - my PDA - on -’ Akiyama managed to speak; his voice was shaking and cut off at strange intervals.

A soft click. And then white, blinding light. Fushimi flinched, his eyes watering. He blinked hard and forced himself to adjust; slowly, his vision returned, and what he saw caused him to stagger till his back hit the stainless steel behind him.

Akiyama’s PDA was on the floor. Next to it, Akiyama was doubled over, his right hand a mess of bloodied tendon and poking white bone. At Akiyama’s feet lay a thin, blood-soaked something that Fushimi recognised was his knife. It had cut through Akiyama’s hand with its aura-enhanced blade.

Akiyama seemed to use the brief moment to collect himself. Then he picked up his PDA with his left hand and managed to straighten up. The moment he did that, blood gushed out from the gaping wound in his right hand and soaked the side of his trousers. Akiyama shuddered a little and pressed the wound with the hem of his coat, trying to stem the bleeding.

 Fushimi avoided looking Akiyama in the eye and returned to the panel screen behind him, far too shell-shocked at what he had done to feel apologetic. Akiyama shouldn’t have appeared at that particular moment; he should have rung or texted saying he was coming back so Fushimi would try to get a grip on his senseless dread rather than unleash it via an attack. He stared intently at the panel screen, willing away the image of blood from his mind. The ‘ _executing’_ message had been replaced by a new one.

 

_execution complete. result pending. plug in external device for transmission._

Fushimi took out his now dead PDA. He needed to download the result. To do that, he needed to power up his PDA, if only for a few seconds. He turned to Akiyama, who was leaning against the stainless steel nearby, his breathing shallow.

‘Can I have your PDA for a moment?’

Akiyama nodded, seemingly unable to speak. Fushimi took it and cringed as his fingers slipped on fresh blood. He attached the two PDAs at their power ports. His blinked and returned to life as Akiyama’s dimmed and vibrated. After five seconds, Fushimi unplugged the two devices from one another and plugged his to the communication port. He didn’t want to exhaust Akiyama’s battery.

‘Did you find any unlabelled passageways or security cams?’ he asked, looking at Akiyama’s sweaty profile.

‘I noted it down on my PDA. We’ll avoid those if we need to go in,’ said Akiyama, sounding unusually coherent for someone suffering from acute blood loss. Fushimi’s knife, aura-powered with the savagery of the Red and the precision of the Blue, had severed the muscles as well as most of the blood vessels in Akiyama’s right hand. As Fushimi looked, he realised the blood was no longer gushing from the wound but was now streaming down Akiyama’s fingers in thick, semi-congealing rivulets.

‘Where is Benzai?’ Fushimi asked, finally removing his gaze from the wound.

‘Still out. We decided to come back here when we are finished. No mutual wait. Won’t take him long.’

A soft beep from the panel claimed Fushimi’s attention. He turned and saw a success message on the screen. He took off his PDA and checked the battery. Not much left, not enough to read the results with and lead the way out with. He had to get out of here quickly. He dialled Benzai’s number. After five rings, he heard an error message.

‘Damn.’

‘What is it?’

Fushimi switched on the PDA torch, ‘Message says cannot find contact.’

‘Maybe his battery’s dead,’ said Akiyama, voice noticeably weaker but still coherent. ‘I felt kind of - strange when I was out there exploring. Maybe - it’s all those circuits affecting electronic devices,’ he paused to rest for a while. ‘This place seems to - suck power right out of anything that - runs on battery.’

At the final remark, Fushimi had a flashback of the tracking implant he found on White Bean Tofu Stew’s shoe. Then the sight of Akiyama broke in: the entire right side of his body was drenched in blood, and he appeared to be leaning more and more of his weight against the wall behind him.

‘I have to - wait for Benzai,’ said Akiyama, still sounding coherent to an extent. ‘Did you attack me because you thought I - was the enemy?’

Fushimi glanced up. Their eyes met. Akiyama’s were heavy with pain and questioning and loss of blood, but there was no trace of reproach. Fushimi wanted to explain, felt the need to somehow justify himself; then he remembered why Akiyama came with him and his voice rushed out harsher than he intended.

‘You should’ve waited outside. I warned you.’

The situation they were in might have been painfully awkward if Akiyama hadn’t been on the verge of fainting. They hardly knew each other, and yet they were standing side by side, united by the common agenda of waiting for Benzai to turn up. Under normal circumstances, Fushimi wouldn’t so much as entertain the thought of maintaining a conversation; right now, however, answering Akiyama’s question was the only way to keep him from passing out sooner than he had to.

Akiyama huffed out a breath that might have been a laugh, ‘I - hope you got what you came for.’

‘I did. But I need somewhere to recharge my PDA before I could do anything with it.’

Akiyama closed his eyes as if he was gathering what little energy he still had left.

‘Go. Get out of here before it’s used up. I’ll wait here.’

Fushimi had been expecting Akiyama to say this. He needed to leave right now, to get out of this computer graveyard before it drained the last bit of battery out of his PDA. There was no way he could make it out in the dark. He went through the entrance and was back at the end of the pipe. The forty-degree ascent was no easy feat. He put his hand on the pipe and saw blood smeared against the dank metal: Akiyama’s blood. Where the damned heck was Benzai? A strange, gnawing sensation rose in the pit of Fushimi’s stomach at the thought of mistakenly injuring someone and then leaving him to die from blood loss, while he himself ran away with no other intent than to recharge a PDA.

Trying to ignore the gnawing feeling, Fushimi lowered himself until he was grabbing onto the protruding hood over the pipe’s entrance. His hand slipped yet again and this time he ended up banging his head before tumbling to the ground on his back. Cursing, he scrambled to his feet and kicked the pipe with all his might. He had to find a different way out.

Returning to the data room, the sight that greeted Fushimi was worse than any worst-case scenario he had ever devised. Akiyama had slumped to the floor in a pool of his own blood, and he was not moving. The gnawing feeling in Fushimi’s stomach returned tenfold. This was why he preferred operating alone; having others with him was a hindrance and a downright danger in situations like this. For a moment he had no idea which one he hated more: Akiyama, or Akiyama’s condition. He stepped around the pool of blood until he could reach Akiyama, then shook him roughly by the shoulder. Akiyama did not stir. Fushimi gulped down a mouthful of swearwords and grabbed Akiyama by the wrist, splashing blood all over his own sleeve as he did so. The pulse was weak, and quivering. Again Fushimi’s anger resurfaced, this time accented with frustration and fear. He heaved Akiyama to his side and checked the wound in his right hand; blood was slowly trickling along the exposed bones, and the flesh around had a purplish and ragged feel to it.

Fushimi fumbled all over himself until he found a folded handkerchief in the breast pocket of his shirt. He tied it around Akiyama’s wound and held it down, dipping his knees in the pool of blood without realising it. Noticing Akiyama’s PDA close by, he grabbed it and dialled Benzai’s number.

‘Pick up, you freaking bastard!’

Still there was no sound. This time Fushimi didn’t bother holding back. Getting to his feet, soaked in blood from knees down and specked all over, he spent the following ten seconds being verbally and physically abusive to the nearest wall he could find. The dull reverberation from stainless steel caused the mounted circuit panels to beep and flash a collage of warnings. The venting now over, Fushimi returned to where Akiyama was and made another attempt to heave him up, which ended with Fushimi falling face-first to the ground with the dead weight that was Akiyama slumped on top of him. Fushimi crawled out on all fours, panting, his grey shirt now liberally smeared with red and sticking to his back.

‘What’s the - oh hell what happened?!’

Fushimi never imagined hearing Benzai’s voice would bring such relief. Putting his hands on the ground, Fushimi pushed himself to his feet and smeared cold sweat off his forehead, no longer minding the blood. Benzai took one swift look at Akiyama, then at Fushimi.

‘Were you attacked?’

Fushimi thought it best to bypass the question for the moment, ‘Did you find any other passageway out?’

Benzai handed Fushimi his PDA before bending over to check on Akiyama. Fushimi checked Benzai’s PDA and saw a dotted map overlapping the one he himself had transmitted. Benzai had plotted the labyrinth well, which explained the low-battery warning at the corner of his PDA screen. The situation was getting desperate.

Behind him, Fushimi heard Benzai’s sharp intake of breath. Leaning over Akiyama, Benzai had taken off Fushimi’s clumsy handkerchief bandage and was retying it to Akiyama’s wrist like a tourniquet, directly above the wound. ‘How long has he been like this?’ he asked Fushimi.

‘A while.’

Benzai slapped Akiyama hard and called him several times. At this, Akiyama showed signs of beginning to hover between coming around and sinking back into unconsciousness. Benzai cursed under his breath and heaved Akiyama up like a sack of potatoes. Fushimi took all three PDAs and dashed into the tunnel, Benzai at his heels. 

‘You aren’t hurt, are you?’ came Benzai’s voice from behind.

‘No.’

‘What happened? Did someone attack you? Was it the security guards from up there?’

‘Just shut up until we’re out of here.’

Fushimi felt compelled to give Benzai credit for carrying a half-unconscious Akiyama over his shoulders and running and talking as if he didn’t need to breathe.  

‘Are the red dots security cams?’ he asked, staring at Benzai’s PDA in his hand.

‘Yes. Go around those. The blue flag’s an exit. Eleventh roundabout down southwest.’

Using Akiyama’s PDA as torch and Benzai’s as navigator, Fushimi headed down the tunnel leading up to the labelled roundabouts, his own PDA in his jeans pocket and completely dead. Behind him, he could hear Benzai stumbling about struggling to keep up and to stop Akiyama falling off his shoulder.

Benzai’s footsteps were drumming desperation into the floor beneath him; with no idea what happened in the data room and Fushimi unwilling to share the details, Benzai was left to imagine the worst. The labyrinth as he saw it was now filled with hidden enemies his exploring had failed to locate; all he could see in front of him was the slender and blood-drenched figure that he knew was Fushimi, and all he could think of was the dire consequence of having Akiyama - his colleague and best friend - die on him because he wasn’t able to get out in time.

Fushimi disappeared around a corner. Benzai gave Akiyama another heave and broke into a trot. Suddenly, the ceiling above him lit up with a shrill ring. Benzai’s heart gave a sickening lurch at the thought of getting caught by Orange’s security camera; he bent lower and sprinted out of reach.

A crashing bang ahead, followed by a cry of agony. Benzai lunged ninety-degrees and found Fushimi on the floor, clutching his head. The PDA torch showed the lowered ceiling of the tunnel. Apparently Fushimi hadn’t noticed and had smashed his head against it.

‘Are you all right?’

Fushimi seemed too caught up in pain to realise Benzai was there. From the tunnel Benzai just exited, the ring shrilled with a continuation that seemed to have gripped him by the ankles. Benzai stooped and tried entering the low tunnel with Akiyama on his shoulder: it didn’t work. He lowered Akiyama to the floor and began to tow him.

Presently Fushimi got to his feet, swaying a little. Benzai glanced at him and saw blood streaming down the side of his face.

‘I think I got caught by a motion sensor or something,’ Benzai addressed Fushimi over the shrill ring in the background. ‘I didn’t come down this tunnel so I didn’t map it.’

Fushimi picked up the PDAs. ‘Keep going,’ he said, voice hollow. He went ahead, passed Akiyama who was sprawled on the floor, then swerved off course and fell against the side of the tunnel. The impact to his head had clearly affected his coordination. Before Benzai could approach to check on him, however, Fushimi got to his feet with a bleeding shoulder and started running again. Resigned, Benzai grabbed Akiyama by the back of his coat and resumed towing.

It was the worst retreat Benzai had ever participated in. With a semi-concussed Fushimi crashing and swerving ahead, struggling to stay on course, and with a half-dead Akiyama whose bloodied clothes were leaving a tacky, gory trail more revealing than footprints, Benzai toiled on with every ounce of perseverance wrung out of his toughest Defence drills. Once or twice he caught sight of light bobbing up and down in a direction he wasn’t going - they appeared to be signals of some sort - and he imagined Orange security guards were closing in on them. But the ring they heard before remained the one and only real hazard. No one had come down to the data centre; it was just the three of them.

Sweating, panting, Benzai kept his pace until his lungs were on fire. Then, without warning, Fushimi stopped, and Benzai smashed into him, causing Fushimi to flop to the floor yet again. The two PDAs in his hand fell clanking to the corner of the wall and went out, but Benzai could still see the surroundings. He blinked; they were at a door. The words _STAFF ONLY_ blinked down at them from a swirl of light bulbs on the ceiling.

Fushimi clambered to his feet, which gave out before he could straighten up and sent him crashing against the doorframe. Something beeped; the light bulbs went out, and they were again plunged into total darkness save for the slither of daylight filtering in through the glass panel on the door. Benzai grabbed the knob and twisted hard. They didn’t have keys; it was a gesture of sheer desperation, and Benzai expected the door to remain locked.

It didn’t. It opened with a click, at which the light bulbs came back to life again. Benzai used his elbow to prop open the door and waited for Fushimi, who stumbled through like a drunk fighting to stay on his feet. Benzai towed Akiyama out, shut the door, before collapsing against the wall, his muscles cramping with exhaustion.

Luckily for Benzai, his body seemed to have taken the whole ordeal as another training session, so after a brief moment he was rested enough to stand up again. As he did, he began to look around, checking their surroundings. They were still at Orange Headquarters, that was certain; the corridor they were in had a ceiling of see-through glass and a feel of long-term disuse. Wherever they were, it was a much safer place than where they had just left. Benzai turned to Fushimi. He needed to get his PDA back so he could call Scepter 4 HQ for assistance.

Fushimi sat with his back against the wall and his head between his knees. He was a mess, bruised all over from his many falls and covered from head to foot in blood that was now dried patches of mauve-brown. Benzai could no longer tell what colour his clothes were.

‘Fushimi, are you all right? Fushimi?’

Fushimi stirred and peered at the source of voice over his knees. His eyes were intensely blue and had a touch of vacantness that suggested the onset of concussion. The impact to his head had been serious. Benzai gave up waiting for a reply and grabbed a PDA from Fushimi’s hand. The battery was completely dead. He grabbed another, which he recognised was his own: the battery was hanging on, but just. He dialled, keeping his voice to a whisper as he talked. The corridor remained deserted, which meant they were probably safe here. Benzai could only surmise the exit they came through wasn’t the only one.

They couldn’t sit here and wait. If someone decided to come after them, all they needed to do was hold a torch and follow the trail of blood down in the data centre. Benzai checked Akiyama: the extremities were cold, the pulse a faint vibration. Hypovolemic shock was probably under way. Benzai slung Akiyama’s arm over his shoulders and hoisted him up.

‘We have to get to the gate, Fushimi. Come quick.’

It felt strange to take the lead after what had happened. At Benzai’s prompt, Fushimi stirred and began to work himself into a standing posture. The concussion was yet to claim his ability to understand spoken words, which was a small relief. Benzai waited till Fushimi began to move, then followed at a close distance, ready to grab hold of him in case he collapsed again.

‘This way.’ 

Benzai took Fushimi by the scruff of the neck and steered him through an emergency exit. Outside, they were greeted by a slight drizzle. People carrying umbrellas walked past: Orange employees. Fushimi leant against a ledge behind the door, then sat on it. It was clear he didn’t want to be seen, and was too tired or disoriented to go any further. Out of the three of them, Benzai was the only one who didn’t look like he had just survived a carnage. Benzai lowered Akiyama onto the same ledge and propped him half against the wall and half against Fushimi’s shoulder. Fushimi didn’t object, which could only mean his concussion was severe enough to have shut down the part of his brain that was essentially _him_.

Benzai’s PDA vibrated. The call came from Scepter 4. He picked up, wishing the battery would hold on.

‘Where are you?!’

It took Benzai a moment to recognise the caller: Ishizuka, a Swords member.

‘Still in the building. Did you get a non-official van like I told you to? Which gate are you at?’

‘The back one. We can’t come through without a parking permit. You need -’

The call went out. Benzai’s PDA died. Cursing, Benzai threw it in his pocket and ran out into the rain. People stared at him as he passed, presumably at his uniform. He ignored it and made a beeline to the back gate. The vehicle that parked there was not a medical van. It wasn’t painted blue and didn’t have Scepter 4’s emblem on the side, but he recognised the registration number. He slapped the windscreen. Two people came out from the back seats, one of them Ishizuka.

‘Get in there and get them out!’ he bellowed at the pair of them.

**†**

’Why the damned hell did you agree to go with _him_?!’ Ishizuka pointed at Fushimi, his voice a furious whisper.

Benzai scowled, ‘Desperate investigation calls for desperate means.’ 

‘Like hell, it does!’

They were at Scepter 4’s private clinic. Benzai and Ishizuka were standing outside a ward that housed Akiyama, who was comatose from a mixture of hypothermia and severe blood loss. Next to them, Fushimi sat slumped on a bench, his head in his knees, a power board at his feet. Three PDAs were plugged in, charging.

Benzai glanced at Fushimi. Ten minutes ago, a doctor had come out of Akiyama’s ward and done a series of tests on Fushimi which involved a lot of prodding and then asking him to follow with his eyes the movement of a penlight. Benzai’s guess was verified. Fushimi had a slight concussion, which explained his apparent lack of response to whatever was happening around him.

‘They should patch him up a bit,’ Benzai observed, taking in the dried blood on the back of Fushimi’s shirt. 

‘As if you really cared what’s happening to him,’ Ishizuka’s voice was laced with derision. ‘Better worry about Mr Akiyama.’

Akiyama enjoyed universal respect among all Swords members regardless of squad.

‘So you haven’t found out who attacked him?’ Ishizuka was nowhere near giving up.

‘No. I wasn’t there when it happened. Fushimi was. You tell me if he’s in any condition to explain at the moment.’

Ishizuka glanced at Fushimi, ‘I can’t believe you two went with him simply because he asked you to.’

‘He didn’t,’ said Benzai, feeling drained. ‘It’s Lieutenant Awashima’s order. This mission was down on the schedule ages ago. We are supposed to go with Fushimi.’

‘If I ever found out who attacked Mr Akiyama,’ said Ishizuka in a savage voice, ‘I swear I’ll tear that bastard from limb to limb.’

‘Forget it. Injuries are part of our life right since the days we were with Defence.’

‘But it’s Mr Akiyama’s hand! If they couldn’t fix it he might never be able to wield a sword any more!’

Benzai’s mood plummeted. He hadn’t thought of that.

‘He’ll pull through,’ he said stubbornly. ‘Akiyama is a Blue Clansman. He can pull through anything.’

Ishizuka caught the lack of conviction in Benzai’s voice, ‘You didn’t hear what the doctor said, did you? It’s not an ordinary stab. Ordinary weapons can’t sever muscles and blood vessels or dislocate bones like that. It was a superpower attack,’ then his eyes fell on Fushimi again. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if it was _someone_ from Homra.’

**†**

Fushimi heard the exchange between the two men near him. He could make out every syllable, every word, and yet after putting them together the message they were conveying fell into nonexistence. The dull, throbbing ache in his head had rendered him incapable of thinking. He couldn’t even trust himself to stand up lest his brain seeped out of his ears from the prospect of ordering his body to stay upright.

He stared into the patch of fabric covering his knees. He was so close, the smell of dried blood filled his nostrils and stomped on his gagging reflex. It didn’t happen. Gagging was a physical reaction that probably required dispatching and receiving of signals involving the brain, and his wasn’t up to the challenge just yet. Somehow he had a niggling feeling that he was trying to run away from some form of danger, and he was followed by someone, someone who shouted unintelligible commands into his ear as they flew for their lives. Then the ache in his head cut in until his muscles tensed and everything blurred. He couldn’t remember anything.

Someone tapped him on the shoulder. His brain struggling to comprehend the meaning of it, Fushimi straightened up, uncurling his back like a gardener pushing open a heavily rusted gate. The shift in posture brought on another tempest of pain in his head, accompanied by the restlessness of nausea. Fushimi fought it down, then leant against whatever was behind him and forced his eyes to stay open; the world as he saw it swam in and out of focus. The sensation of crashing head-on into something returned; he closed his eyes against it as his heart hitched up to hammer against the inside of his skull.

‘Open your eyes.’

The voice was clinical. Fushimi obeyed, his brain too befuddled to recall what his usual response ought to be. The face of a man appeared, then the sparse hair that topped it and narrow, scholarly-looking specs. Fushimi stared at him, looking, not seeing.

‘Do you remember what happened?’ asked the man. He was wearing a lab coat. He was a doctor. Could be.

Fushimi tried to remember what happened. His brain protested under a new surge of pain. ‘Yes,’ he said, without understanding what he had said.

‘Tell me where you are right now.’

‘Yes.’

‘Well?’

Fushimi could tell he was in a certain place, different to the place he had just left, which he couldn’t remember the slightest. He made another effort to recall, which ended in a blur of pain and fuzzy colours, devoid of meaning. 

‘Why are you asking me this?’ he said, which wasn’t exactly what he wanted to say.

The man - the doctor - straightened up. Fushimi’s eyes followed him, and saw him turn to a man in blue uniform. Fushimi stared at the uniform, then at the man’s face. It was Benzai. What was he doing here?

‘Short-term memory loss,’ the doctor told Benzai. ‘Typical concussion symptom. He needs to rest. Try not to ask him too many questions.’

‘What about Akiyama?’

‘He’s lost quite a bit of blood, but he should be fine. Only drawback is he won’t be able to use his right hand for a while.’

Fushimi closed his eyes against the ceaseless talking. Then someone spoke again, this time to his right. Benzai’s voice. He had sat down on the bench next to Fushimi. The doctor was gone.

‘I don’t suppose you remember who attacked Akiyama,’ Benzai’s voice was conversational. He was talking to Fushimi without expecting a reply from him. Then he bent down, Fushimi’s eyes following him. When Benzai straightened again, he had three PDAs in his hand. He held out one of them to Fushimi, who merely stared.

‘I think I heard a message from yours,’ said Benzai, pointing at the PDA with his chin. Fushimi’s eyes shifted from Benzai’s face to the PDA in his hands. The screen was on. He took it and tapped the message box, his brain a mere spectator while his fingers acted with a mind of their own.

 

_Dear Mr Fushimi,_

_This is to remind you that your driver’s theory test will be scheduled on the first Saturday of October. Please confirm your application details three days prior to the appointed date._

_We wish you success with your test,_

_Tokyo Transport and Automobile Agency_

‘Driver’s theory test?’ Fushimi heard himself sound out the words. Why did he get this message?

Benzai leant in. ‘You need to sit the test,’ he said, reading the message. ‘You have a week left. Hopefully your concussion will have cleared by then. Did you get the intel you needed from that computer room under Orange?’

Fushimi managed to follow every word until the last sentence, which was too long and caused his brain to stumble.

‘What orange?' 

Benzai sighed, ‘I can’t believe you don’t remember what we went through. You went to Orange to get what you needed. We had to share batteries. But I don’t suppose you are going to process all that in a jiffy.’

‘No,’ said Fushimi. ‘Where are we?’

Benzai sighed again.

‘Come on, on your feet. Let’s get you back. Don’t leave your room until you sleep it off. I’ll sort out the rest.’

**†**

 

To Benzai, the incident at Orange had be so strange and nerve-wracking, it seemed surreal that the three of them managed to get back at all. Such was the thought that haunted him as he spent the weekend drafting endless reports. They were endless because the mission had resulted in the injury of two out of three participants, which was rare by Scepter 4 standards. As a courtesy to Fushimi, the supposed organiser of the mission, Benzai had done all he could to keep the whole affair a secret, but he couldn’t face the mass of Saturday trainees without explaining to them the mysterious absence of Akiyama, their default supervisor. He conceded by telling them that Akiyama was injured during a private investigation on Friday and would be indisposed for the weekend. The trainees looked a mix of sympathetic and sceptical, but accepted it nevertheless. Ishizuka, who knew more of what really happened, kept silent at Benzai’s behest, but could be seen sulking in the background and casting doubtful glances at Benzai from time to time.

‘You can’t gloss it over, you know,’ he cornered Benzai during recess. ‘I bet Mr Akiyama would tell the doctor who attacked him the moment he wakes up.’

‘Shut up and focus on your moves,’ said Benzai, with the slightest hint of irritation to his voice.

Another potential disturbance dwelled in the attractive yet deadly figure that was Lieutenant Awashima, who turned out to be not as hard to deal with as Benzai had dreaded. After hearing the news, Awashima came to the private clinic where Benzai was visiting Akiyama between training sessions. Benzai told her what he knew, expecting reprimands, but instead received a word of sympathy and even encouragement.

‘You did what you could,’ she concluded. ‘There would no doubt be a lot of explaining to do if Orange security caught you. Whoever attacked Akiyama must be an incredibly competent superpower wielder.’

At this, Benzai began to feel uncomfortable. ‘The doctor did further examinations this morning and told me his opinion when I came in earlier. There may be another explanation to it.’

‘Which is?’

‘The wound is more serious than meets the eye because it was from an aura-enhanced knife. With Akiyama being a Blue Clansman, only Blue auras can cause such severe damage.’

Benzai paused to give Awashima a moment to digest the information.

‘Was Fushimi with Akiyama when the attack took place?’ said Awashima in an even voice.

‘Apparently. I don’t really know.’

‘You think it was Fushimi?’

Benzai cringed at the lack of delicacy in the question, ‘I’m not accusing him of anything, but it’s a possibility.’

‘How is he? Is he getting better?’

Benzai had no idea. What with paperwork, stand-in training and checking on Akiyama, he hadn’t got around to worrying about Fushimi at all.

‘I told him to sleep it off. He isn’t hard to talk to when he’s concussed, although whether the message has sunk in is a different matter.’

Awashima was silent for so long, Benzai assumed she wouldn’t comment, so he went on, ‘Does Captain Munakata know about this?’

‘The incident, or Fushimi’s condition?’

‘The former encompasses the latter.’

Awashima sighed, ‘He does. He was at Fushimi’s room yesterday night, and also here at Akiyama’s ward before dawn. I haven’t talked to him since.’

‘I see.’

‘One thing is certain: we will both have plenty of questions to ask Fushimi when he is ready.’

Benzai studied Awashima’s profile, ‘You don’t really think Fushimi attacked Akiyama, do you, ma’am? He’s been with us for a year now. I don’t see why he would do such a thing.’

Awashima’s expression was hard to read. ‘You never know,’ she said slowly; then, before leaving the ward. ‘I will go and see how he is. Meanwhile, I shall rely on you to take up Akiyama’s duties until he recovers.’

Benzai saluted.

**†**

A week after the infiltration incident, Fushimi emerged from the stable shortly after seven in the morning, bucket and brush in hand, having just finished his horse-sitting shift.

He had returned to work on the previous day. What happened before then was a blur of incessant headache and broken dreams. He had slept longer than his body needed. It cured his sleep deprivation, went overboard, and ended up leaving him more tired than he had been. He was allowed to return to work after he was able to tell the doctor who he was and then describe his surroundings in a coherent manner. Unbeknownst to the doctor, the return of irritation at being asked those questions had been the one true sign that convinced Fushimi of his recovery.

Fushimi put the grooming gear back in the shed and began making his way to the office building. Recovering from his concussion-induced memory loss would probably not have been possible if he hadn’t checked his PDA and the data he left on his computer in the information room. He still had trouble remembering every tiny detail, but he did manage to recall two crucial scenarios, one involving Akiyama covered in blood, and one involving everything he needed to uncover with regard to his hacking into Orange’s intranet.

Halfway to the office building, however, Fushimi changed course and turned in the direction of the residential hall. He sneaked in via the side door, avoiding the group of Swords members returning from their morning shift. He climbed the stairs, then turned down the opposite end of the corridor until he was at a room that was not his. He hesitated, staring at the name plate, then started when footsteps came from the shadowy staircase he hardly ever used. He turned to leave.

‘Fushimi?’

Fushimi stopped. It saved him the trouble of having to knock on the door. Akiyama came out of the shadow, a towel around his neck; he stopped between the door to his room and Fushimi. It was the first time they had seen each other since the incident a week ago. Against his wish, Fushimi’s eyes dropped to Akiyama’s right hand: it was covered in bandages.

‘How are you?’ Akiyama’s voice was airier than the his look warranted.

‘Alive,’ mumbled Fushimi, hating the way Akiyama took it with a smile. Akiyama didn’t seem to expect anything else to be said on Fushimi’s behalf, so Fushimi looked up and met his eyes, wondering if Akiyama wanted a conversation at all, or was merely humouring him with words of civility.

At length Akiyama came over and leant against the balcony next to Fushimi, ‘I haven’t had such a long leave since I joined Scepter 4.’

Once again Fushimi’s eyes flicked to Akiyama’s bandaged hand. ‘When were you discharged?’

‘Last night. I don’t think Benzai would survive another week of having to multitask as two people,’ said Akiyama with a hint of regret. ‘I won’t be able to do training for a while, so it’ll be office and paperwork for me. When did you go back to work?’

‘Yesterday morning.’

‘I heard from Benzai what happened,’ said Akiyama, gesturing vaguely with his uninjured hand. ‘Ever since I woke up, he’s been trying to coax the full story out of me. Says he wants to know what happened before he found his way back to the data room.’

Fushimi snorted, ‘It’ll be the talk of the office for the rest of the year.’

‘Does it bother you?’

‘Not particularly.’

‘I don’t suppose you’d care to tell me why you attacked?’ said Akiyama. ‘Not everyone understands every decision they make, let alone the actions they take. I’d probably have panicked if I were left alone without light on in that place.’

Fushimi felt the familiar anger rise inside him, this time accented with frustration and something he couldn’t put a name to. ‘If I were you, I wouldn’t try to talk like I was somebody else.’

It was as good as admitting why he had attacked Akiyama. It was a stupid, irrational fear, something like a panic attack. But somehow Fushimi felt the thing he had been fretting over was lifted from his shoulders. He knew Akiyama didn’t mind, knew he wouldn’t tease him. It was the first time, perhaps in years, when he had felt something that wasn’t bitterness while he explained himself to another human being.

‘So did you solve the mystery?’ asked Akiyama.

Fushimi thought about the result of the sniffer program, ‘I’ve got what I needed to know.’

‘Then it’s worth it,’ said Akiyama, turning to Fushimi with a smile. ‘Honestly, I’m not looking forward to another mission like this.’

‘There won’t be another one,’ said Fushimi. ‘And you are not coming if there is.’

‘It’s not for either of us to decide, really.’

As a prelude to his answer, Fushimi cast another glance at Akiyama’s bandaged hand. This time, Akiyama’s eyes followed him.

‘Don’t come with me again,’ said Fushimi, shifting his gaze from Akiyama’s hand to his face so that he was looking him in the eye. ‘Just don’t. I mean it.’

‘Okay. I won’t.’

Akiyama’s voice was quietly pacifying.

 


	17. Punishments and Rewards

_‘It is circumstances and events that make people young or old,_

_not the years that pass over their heads.’_

_(Howard Overing Sturgis - ‘Tim’)_

 

Fushimi’s post-concussion headache accompanied him to his driver’s theory test on Saturday morning. Having confirmed the date three days ago as required by the text message, Fushimi was allowed to sit the test at Scepter 4 Headquarters, using an ordinary laptop in the ‘second information room’, which was the computer room the intelligence division allocated chiefly for Swords members.

The room was empty except for Fushimi and - much to Fushimi’s chagrin - Domyoji, who Fushimi had forgotten was roped in for the same test. While waiting for the online paper to load, the two of them sat in opposite corners of the room without so much as casting a glance in each other’s direction, albeit for very different reasons. Domyoji was seized by a bout of exam nerves so potent he was practically in tears; having left school at seventeen, he never thought there would come a day when he would be thrown yet again into an exam scenario. Fushimi, however, was still recovering (with little progress) from his post-concussion headache and had barely finished his practice tests the night before. Although Domyoji managed to stay quiet, Fushimi’s inner persecution complex was on guard the whole time and wouldn’t stop playing scene after scene of Domyoji flying out of control, setting the room on fire, and causing Fushimi to be thrown out of the test sans compensation.

When the test was over, Domyoji sprung up from his seat and slammed his laptop shut with a whoop of delight. At this, Fushimi shrank further into his corner. He had submitted his answers on time, but he couldn’t leave the room before Domyoji in case the latter ran amok in front of him and shattered his barely existent peace of mind.

‘Begone, ye nasty exams!’ Domyoji pretended gunning the laptop down with his forearm. The door opened; Kamo’s face appeared, looking apprehensive.

‘Be quiet!’

‘You can’t come in. This is the exam room.’

‘It was. The light on the door came on two minutes ago. That means the exam is over.’

‘Oh, all right,’ Domyoji shrugged, before breaking into an ear-to-ear grin. ‘Now we can go off somewhere for road prac. We’ll play Pac-Man using the car and the road!’

Looking more apprehensive than ever, Kamo kept the door open while Domyoji went through. Back in his seat, Fushimi relaxed a little, then drew up his knees and rested his arms on them; the posture kept him warm. He logged out of the driver’s test account and logged in to his own. This wasn’t his laptop, but being standard intel div equipment, it had all the essentials. He checked the mailbox.

A new mail came in fifteen minutes earlier. Fushimi opened it.

 

_SUBJECT: Re - Forensic Report: Case 7253_

_BODY:_

_To <intended recipient> of Scepter 4,_

_Please find attached a copy of the forensic report concerning the death of Orange tech member 7253, now classified as ‘Unsolvable’ by Tokyo Metropolitan CID. Investigation rights soon to be passed on to Scepter 4. Further documents to come._

_All the best,_

_Your unknown friend_

 

Fushimi opened the attachment. The innocent if grisly content did not deceive him. Something was off about this email. An organisation such as Tokyo Metropolitan Police would never send an email addressing the recipient as ‘<intended recipient>’ or themselves as ‘your unknown friend’. The forensic report appeared genuine, though. This ‘unknown friend’ probably nicked it from the Metropolitan CID database. After his infiltration into Orange’s secret data centre, Fushimi had come to regard all sorts of electronic-based media with suspicion. He scrolled up, re-reading the email.

The door opened for a second time without Fushimi’s noticing. His eyes were fixed on the sender line, which simply read ‘Undisclosed’. An undisclosed sender. What was this person trying to hide?

‘Hello,’

The voice caught Fushimi completely off guard. He toppled sideways, bruising his shoulder on the window ledge, and fell off his chair. Munakata waited till Fushimi reemerged from under the desk, then righted Fushimi’s chair and sat in it. Fushimi stared: with the desk to one side and Munakata right in front, he was cornered. As if guessing what he was thinking, Munakata turned to Fushimi and fixed him with a look that brooked no protest. Fushimi sat down on the window ledge and resigned himself to whatever was to come. At this, Munakata broke into a smile.

‘How was the test?’

‘Passable,’ Fushimi grumbled, his mind still on the email from the unknown sender. ‘I need to leave.’

‘Where for?’

‘The information room.’

‘Which reminds me,’ said Munakata, sounding annoyingly pleasant, ‘I was hoping we could have a little talk before you do.’

‘About the road practice?’

‘Not yet. About Mr Akiyama.’

Fushimi became still. ‘I thought this might be coming.’

‘It most certainly has. You were asleep when I last visited you. Then you had to prepare for your theory test; or so I assume.’

‘I’m not hushing things over,’ Fushimi began. ‘Everything was a blur for the past few days.’

‘Is it still?’

‘Not any more. I did it,’ said Fushimi, before rephrasing it a little. ‘I attacked Mr Akiyama. I didn’t mean to, but I did and now he’s confined to office jobs. There. Happy?’

‘It was against my wish to force a confession out of you, Fushimi.’

Fushimi had to exert every ounce of common sense to not kick Munakata. It was such a tempting thing to do, the way they sat there, Fushimi on the ledge and Munakata in the chair, Fushimi’s feet dangling inches from Munakata’s side.

‘You weren’t forcing me,’ said Fushimi, not meaning it.

‘I did wonder why Mr Akiyama refused to tell me anything,’ said Munakata, finally removing his gaze from Fushimi. ‘Was he concealing the fact of his own volition because it might hurt you otherwise?’

‘Did you corner him with a chair and force him to tell?’

‘So you do think I was forcing you. My apologies.' 

Fushimi rested his elbows on his knees, ‘I don’t know why Akiyama didn’t say anything. I told him it was a secret mission. He probably took it too literally, I imagine.’

‘It certainly sounds like the sort of thing Mr Akiyama would do,’ Munakata’s voice regained its annoying pleasantness. ‘And you were partly right, Fushimi. I did plan to talk to you about your road practice too.’

To Fushimi, this didn’t bode well. ‘I thought I would get Lieutenant Awashima?’ It wasn’t what he had wanted to say, but he couldn’t go more explicitly than that, which would have been ‘why are _you_ here to tell me this?’.

The smugness in Munakata’s face suggested Fushimi had reacted as expected. ‘Lieutenant Awashima would be glad to hear that you prefer her company,’ said Munakata. ‘However, given the circumstances, _I_ will be your one and only instructor. You may regard it as a punishment for what you did to Mr Akiyama.’

What followed was one of those strangely intense moments when two people confronted each other with nothing but the look in their eyes. Considering his lack of wriggle room in pretty much everything that involved Munakata, Fushimi put up a decent fight, refusing to look away until something in Munakata’s gaze reminded him that Akiyama was the cause of their wordless confrontation. No matter how Fushimi chose to look at it, he couldn’t look around the fact that it was he who had injured Akiyama, intentionally or not.

He backed down without saying anything. Munakata’s smile widened.

‘How is your investigation going, anyway?’

Fushimi sighed, ‘You may look at it yourself. I’m logged in.’ He gestured at the laptop on the desk.

‘I prefer hearing your theories.’

Another sigh. ‘Yesterday I fed the result I got from Orange’s data centre to one of the processors in the information room. I checked the source of every piece of data I gathered, right from the first time I found the defects in Scepter 4’s network. I did a pattern matching.’

‘And which source are you matching it with?’

Fushimi spent some time gathering his thoughts. ‘Jungle,’ he said in an even voice. ‘I had no real proof, but I had to start somewhere. Presumption is the way to go when there’s no proof. I just felt the Green Clan were involved. I matched the source of my data with Jungle’s after using my old account to log in. It’s the only way to get inside.’

‘What is the result of the execution?’

’87% match. As there’s no other matching candidate, the yield means all those defects - Orange’s as well as Scepter 4’s - stem from spyware issued from Jungle’s website. The channel of transmission bypasses sniffer programs fairly well.’

’87 per cent match, hmm. Can you perhaps think of an explanation for the 13 per cent miss?’

Fushimi rubbed his temple. ‘My matching program isn’t robust enough.’

‘You are selling yourself short, Fushimi. My explanation is that the Green Clan do not rely on Orange to run their website,’ said Munakata. ‘Jungle, as we know, has its own server, which is probably supported by the Green King’s power, whereas we are using ordinary electronic means for our probe. An analogy would be trying to deflect a superpower attack with a wooden stick. Things are bound to go amiss to a certain extent.’

‘Seems you are dead convinced the Green King’s behind it.’

‘Are you not?’

Fushimi shrugged. ‘I don’t like the Green Clan,’ he said, after a prolonged pause. ‘Wouldn’t put it past them to plot something like this. I bet the email is one of their hoaxes too. Hack into Metro CID database, nick the autopsy, pass the case to Scepter 4 while Metro Police are kept in the dark so when they find out they would round on us. Sounds like the sort of thing the Green King would find amusing.’

‘What email?’

Fushimi gestured at the laptop. Munakata read the content on the screen, frowning a little. ‘Have you done a source matching on this?’

‘Was about to,’ Fushimi countered with a shade of bitterness in his voice. ‘But you came in and wouldn’t let me.’

‘So I did. My apologies. However, business is business. There are other things we need to discuss before you walk out of this room. Your punishment is not over yet.’

Fushimi eyed Munakata with misgiving. What had he done now?

‘No need to look so upset,’ Munakata smiled. ‘I only used the word “punishment” to get your attention. From what I gather, you appear to have a real flair for investigation, so I would like you to take direct orders from me, whenever and wherever I need you. What do you think?’

The silence that followed was long and stifling.

‘I’m not your lackey,’ Fushimi’s voice came out barely above a whisper.

‘Did I imply that you were?’

Fushimi made another effort, ‘You don’t need me. You have loads of people under you. You can call anyone from any div at any moment, if you want to.’

‘Exactly. Which is why I want _you_. I have my own cases where private investigation would be much appreciated. As a reward, you may tell anyone here who objects that you are acting on my behalf. Mentioning my name is more useful than a work pass.’

‘Small compensation for a lackey.’

‘If you insist on calling yourself that. One other thing.’

‘Okay.’ Fushimi’s head was starting to hurt again.

‘Have you got your new uniform?’

Fushimi had, having received a parcel before he left his room in the morning, so he said yes, wondering what Munakata was driving at this time.

‘So why are you not wearing it?’

‘Do I have to on a weekend?’ Fushimi countered, somehow feeling he was about to land himself another punishment.

‘Not necessarily. Hence no need to bite my head off.’

Munakata’s teasing did little to appease Fushimi. He studied Munakata’s clothes, searching for flaws. Munakata wore his uniform without the overcoat, which made him look rather like a waiter that just came out of a period film. Not sure if it was a flaw, or attack-worthy, Fushimi gave up trying.

‘When will you receive your theory test result, Fushimi?’

‘Dunno. They’ll probably email me when it’s out.’

‘When are you ready for a road session?’

Fushimi raised his eyes, ‘Is it up to me to decide? I’m _not_ the one who rules the roost around here.’

Munakata got to his feet. ‘Give me a ring when you get the result. You may need fast transport for some of the missions in the future. I would like to get the road practice started as soon as we are both able.’

**†**

For some unknown reason, the issuing date for the theory test result was delayed for almost a whole month. True to his word, Munakata contacted Fushimi the moment Fushimi was emailed a copy of his result, although how Munakata got wind of the fact was beyond Fushimi’s comprehension because Fushimi didn’t ring Munakata on the spot. Fushimi passed by the skin of his teeth, which was an unprecedented low for him since he used to pass everything with flying colours when he was at school. It didn’t matter, though. The transport and automobile agency didn’t care about marks as long as the applicants passed. A letter was sent to Fushimi’s address, containing a temporary driving permit, which he was instructed to stick to the windscreen of the car he would be driving when he was on the road.

One bleak November morning, Fushimi was woken by the merciless ringing of his PDA that he knew came from Munakata. It was barely five o’ clock, and it was going to be his first ever road session with the man who happened to be his boss. When he climbed down the top bunk, the cold floor hit the soles of his feet and sent a chill up his spine like electric current. He breathed on the windowpane to clear the fog, before peering outside. The air had a quality to it that bordered on tipping a sachet of semi-congealed clinical depression down an icebox.

Shivering, Fushimi arrived at the second garage in shirt and jeans. He had grown out of most of his winter clothes and hadn’t got around to buying new ones. Outside the garage, a hatchback was parked with headlights on. Fushimi opened the first door he could grab hold of and slid in. The heater was on; he dived into the back of his seat and almost sagged as the warmth engulfed him like a steaming hot bath.

‘Come to the front, Fushimi,’ came Munakata’s voice from the driver’s seat. Fushimi sat up. If only he could climb over without having to get out of the car. He eyed the space between the two front seats; he could if he was careful not to climb on top of the gearbox.

In the end he settled for the conventional and more civil means. When he sat down in the front passenger seat, shivering and wiping fog off his glasses, Munakata wound down Fushimi’s side of the window by a slither. Icy wet air bled in. Fushimi shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

‘My apologies,’ said Munakata, sounding anything but apologetic. ‘That should keep you awake.’

‘I _am_ awake.’

‘Good. We will go out of town before switching seats.’

Fushimi put on the seat belt. Munakata backed the car out of the driveway, then sped up a little until they approached the front gate. Cold air rushed in through the slither on Fushimi’s window. Fushimi’s hand moved to pluck the button; it didn’t work. Munakata had locked it. Swearing profusely in his head, Fushimi stuffed his hand back inside his pocket.

‘Did you bring your driving permit, Fushimi?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you have breakfast?’

‘No.’

‘Have some coffee, then. In your glovebox.’

Fushimi groped around his side of the door until his fingers came into contact with a can, kept warm by the heater outlet. They were now out on the street. Munakata accelerated until the speedometer reached sixty, then kept it there until they left town. It was still dark; occasionally a truck or ute gained on them with glaring headlights before overtaking. Munakata seemed unfazed and kept going in the slow lane; Fushimi sat slumped in his seat as cold air from outside and hot air from the heater mixed and blew into his face, causing his eyes to stream.

The moment they exited the highway, Munakata slowed and finally came to a stop in the emergency lane. At this, Fushimi wiped his eyes and tried to force himself to stay alert. The coffee hadn’t helped. Neither had the cold air. Munakata killed the engine, unplugged the key, and handed it to Fushimi before opening his door.

As Fushimi put the seatbelt on, key in hand, it dawned on him that Munakata wouldn’t tell him what to do unless he asked or made some serious mistake. It was just as well. Part of the reason Fushimi dreaded having Munakata as his instructor was that he hated the idea of Munakata lecturing him on how to drive without letting him actually do it. In his peripheral, Fushimi saw Munakata sit with crossed arms and closed eyes. Munakata wasn’t even watching him, was probably assuming he could figure out how to start the car all by himself.

Fushimi plugged in the key and turned. With a soft click, the engined throbbed into life. Fushimi fumbled around the side of the wheel until he located the stick with the lighting symbol on it. The headlights came on, followed by fog lights. His right foot felt around from beneath, passed a large pedal, came to rest on a smaller pedal, and pressed. A loud vroom. The car remained still.

‘You are in parking gear,’ said Munakata without opening his eyes.

‘I know,’ said Fushimi, not as placid as Munakata.

‘Were you using the engine to wake me up?’

Fushimi ignored the question and pressed down on the brake. It engaged more easily than he anticipated. He changed into driving gear and slammed on the accelerator. The car shot forward like a bullet, throwing Fushimi back into his seat. He released pressure on the engine and almost immediately the car slowed. Fushimi checked the right side mirror: no cars on the road. He turned on the blinker and eased the car onto the slow lane, before pressing down on the engine with less force than he did the first time. Gradually the car picked up speed. With his left hand on the wheel, Fushimi groped on the right side door until he found the window button. He unlocked it, wound up all four windows, then locked it again. What little cold air that remained in the car was soon swallowed by the heater.

‘You forgot to check the mirrors before you started, Fushimi.’

Fushimi’s eyes were on the road, ‘I didn’t.’

‘You did. You checked the right side mirror before you changed lane, but not the left side or the rear view. Someone could speed up and hide in your blind spot. And you also forgot to adjust any of the three mirrors. You are using my adjustment.’

Fushimi remained silent. He had been naive when he thought there wouldn’t be any lectures from Munakata, and yet he couldn’t deny what Munakata said was right. He did forget to check those things despite knowing about them. They had come up in his theory test.

The road ahead stretched on, with no sign of intersection or even a roundabout. They were driving towards the country, because the speed limit was gradually upped to eighty, nighty, and finally one hundred. Then came a tram line. Fushimi stopped as the signals flashed red and the first of the morning commute rumbled past. The fog clung on, thick and dense; behind them, a caravan also stopped. Fushimi could hear music: a loud, hippy cacophony.

‘Let the van overtake you, and then do a U-turn. We are heading back,’ Munakata commented.

After the tram had gone, Fushimi wasn’t very quick in his effort to start the car. The caravan behind flashed its headlights twice, then roared past, leaving behind a trace of smoke and beats of dreadful music. Fushimi did a U-turn as he was told. Just as he was about to accelerate, however, Munakata asked him to stop. Fushimi steered the car into the emergency lane.

‘What do you think?’ Munakata asked.

‘Grotesque.’

‘Not the caravan. Driving, I mean.’

Fushimi stopped the engine. ‘Nothing in particular. There isn’t much to be said when you are out here driving in the middle of nowhere.' 

‘Better get the hang of how a car works before adding the traffic elements.’

Fushimi snorted: Munakata did have a point.

‘So, do you think you could operate the vehicle during traffic time?’

‘You never know until you’ve tried it.’

Munakata chuckled, ‘You sound like Mr Domyoji.’

‘Has he pranged his car?’

‘Not quite. All of his staff from Swords Four can drive. I suppose he got tips and suggestions from some of them, and has decided to test them out.’

Fushimi had a mental image of Domyoji in the driver’s seat of the hatchback he and Munakata were in. Although not particularly keen on living the life he had, the idea of dying a painful and messy death at the hands of Scepter 4’s top idiot was far less appealing.

‘Have another coffee, Fushimi.’

Fushimi accepted the offer without demur. Munakata got out, leaning against the side of the car while leaving the door wide open. Cold air rushed in. Fushimi sighed before doing the same, his eyes fixed on the wide, open country road in front of him as he sipped his coffee.

‘Come over to this side, Fushimi.’

Fushimi turned so he could glare daggers and refusal at Munakata, but Munakata had his back to him. Defeated, Fushimi went over. ‘What for?’

‘The view on this side is much better. Do you like farms?’

Fushimi had to admit the fields felt different to the roads. ‘Not really,’ he said, and meant it. Then he felt Munakata’s eyes on him, fixing him with a slightly amused look he was familiar with and disliked.

‘This would have looked much nicer in spring. Maybe you would prefer it that way?’

‘No. It makes no difference to me. I don’t like it one bit.’

‘There has to be something you do like _,_ Fushimi.’

Fushimi racked his brains. He had to think of a substantial enough answer if he was to get out of this. ‘I don’t like anything,’ he admitted, which was the truth. ‘But I wouldn’t say no to being left alone so I wouldn’t have to cope with people, or things.’

To his surprise, Munakata appeared satisfied at the reply. Then, for the first time since they drove out of Scepter 4’s garage, Fushimi turned to look properly at Munakata. Like Fushimi, Munakata was in plain clothes and nowhere near being dressed warmly enough. The only difference was that Munakata didn’t seem remotely cold, whereas it took all of Fushimi’s willpower to not curl into a ball and shiver.

Munakata was watching the fields in front of him with obvious enjoyment, ‘This would make a decent camping place during summer.’

Fushimi stared in disbelief. The landscape was flat and plain and had an air of wintery neglect. He couldn’t come up with a less suitable place for camping, although he had no idea what a suitable camping place would be like, either.

‘We will mark it down on the navigator,’ said Munakata, more to himself than to Fushimi. ‘By next summer, we will have had several places to choose from.’

‘Sounds awful,’ Fushimi cut in, half voicing his opinion and half reminding Munakata that he was still here. ‘Summer camps are the worst.’

Munakata glanced at Fushimi with mild amazement. ‘Have you been to one?’

Fushimi hadn’t. ‘No,’ he said, ‘but I know it’s the worst activity you could think of. A bunch of people stuck together, doing pretty much everything together. It’s unseemly.’

‘I am sorry to hear it. However, we have a long tradition of going on training camps every summer. None was organised this year because of my schedule, which is rather regrettable. I will see to it that the tradition is renewed next year.’

By this point Fushimi was beginning to tire of the topic. ‘We should get going now,’ he checked his PDA. ‘It’s a weekday. You will be missed if you don’t turn up by half past eight.’

‘I appreciate the fact that you are so committed to your job and want me to be the same,’ Munakata smiled. ‘Have you been doing anything interesting with your division these days?’

Fushimi decided to put off replying until he was back in the car. ‘Not since you closed the Orange case.’ He switched on the heater.

‘I asked _you_ to close it, Fushimi.’

‘You did. But _you_ were the one making phone calls to all those concerned. I just filed away the paperwork. Me and Akiyama, to be precise.’

‘Yes. Now that we are on it, I have to say the way the Prime Minister wraps things up never ceases to amaze me. Blaming it on someone outside his inner circle would have been much more prudent.’

Fushimi knew what Munakata was referring to. The email from the unknown sender had been a hoax, just as Fushimi had anticipated, because the Metropolitan CID would soon bite their tongue off than admit defeat to Scepter 4. After weeks of brooding, the superintendent had finally given in and launched a conference at the beginning of November, claiming to have solved the mystery, and soon after, news leaked out that an MP serving the current Prime Minister had been arrested for the murder of Orange technician 7253. The shell-shocked Prime Minister then rang Munakata demanding to know if Munakata was behind it all. Munakata denied, confirmed the case had been classified as _unsolvable,_ and then admitted Scepter 4 had ceased all _official_ investigations because this particular case involved ‘an invisible Clan’. Fushimi, on the other hand, had carried on his underground investigations until he was able to confirm with absolute certainty who was the mastermind behind it. Then he filed away the evidence ‘for future reference’, as Munakata told him to.

They drove back the way they came. By the time Fushimi passed the highway exit where he and Munakata swapped seats, it was close to daybreak. Seeing Munakata was in no mood to swap back, Fushimi drove on and entered the highway, back to town. The traffic grew thicker. Munakata stopped the conversation, allowing Fushimi to concentrate on driving. 

Having spent the first half of his first ever road session figuring out the mechanics of driving, the second half saw Fushimi trying to come to terms with any seasoned driver’s worst nightmare - morning rush. They were now well into the Greater Tokyo area, and, following Munakata’s suggestion, had exited the highway earlier than planned and entered a ring route that would let them bypass the mass of intersections facing the CBD. For a glorious three and half minutes it seemed to be a wise move, until they arrived at a T-junction where they joined a queue of seventy vehicles or so, all waiting to move on to the city centre. Fushimi glanced at the time. Quarter past eight. A drizzle was falling, which was fast growing into a hail.

‘Everyone thinks they are being smart taking the ring route. Hence the congestion,’ Munakata commented. ‘Perhaps we ought to have stayed on the highway a bit longer.’

‘Wouldn’t change anything,’ Fushimi replied, feeling sleepy again now that the traffic had come to a standstill.

‘Have another coffee.’ 

Fushimi felt inside the glovebox and took out a new can. With his eyes on the car in front, he popped the can open and took a gulp, which quickly turned into a splutter.

‘W-What’s _that_!?’

Munakata peered at Fushimi, who was hunched over the wheel trying not to gag, and then at the can in his hand.

‘Oh dear. You found my green tea. I thought I brought a can or two along with the coffees, but it was a bit hard to find once they are all nestled together.’

Fushimi wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, before putting the can in the drink holder with more force than he meant to. A bit of the content splashed out. Unsweetened, powdered green tea was the worst drink he had ever tasted. Munakata looked at him with an amused smile. ‘Better watch out when you next grab a drink. Literally.’

Fushimi opened his mouth to retort, but at that moment the car in front of him began to move. Fuming, he tore his eyes from Munakata and busied himself with steering forward. Two or three cars later, the queue grew still again, by which point Fushimi had already lost the will to argue with Munakata about anything. He watched Munakata take the can from the drink holder and pour the tea into a polystyrene cup.

‘Half past eight,’ said Munakata, noticing Fushimi’s eyes on him.

‘It’s not my fault if either of us is late.’

‘No. Do you remember how many hours of supervised driving you have to complete?’

‘A couple hundred, give or take. Why?’

‘One hundred and twenty, to be precise. If you are keen, we can finish it within two weeks.’

Which would equate to about eight hours per day, informed Fushimi’s mental arithmetics. ‘I haven’t got time,’ he negotiated.

‘Not during the day, no. I understand that we both have work to do. But there has to be a way to speed up the process somehow.’

‘If you are talking about all-night driving - ’

‘Which is quite feasible, if not entirely sensible,’ Munakata cut in. ‘I trust you can function on coffee alone? Caffeine is the only drug drivers are allowed to take without breaking the law, not to mention they can take as much as they like.’

The traffic stirred again. Fushimi started the car, pretending not to have heard what Munakata said, but Munakata carried on, ‘We can go for out-of-hours driving, which does not necessarily mean all night. It is my wish that you get your licence as quickly as possible.’

Fushimi figured he had to put his foot down before Munakata could arrive at any definitive conclusion. ‘I might prang your car if you force me to drive that many hours on a daily basis, sir.’

‘This is not _my_ car,’ said Munakata serenely. ‘Scepter 4 owns a number of unofficial vehicles. This is one of them.’

‘So you wouldn’t so much as bat an eye if I pranged it.’

‘It depends. In any case, if serious damage was done, _the driver_ pays the maintenance fees.’

Fushimi remained silent. Luckily for him, traffic became smoother once he wormed out of the T-junction. What followed was a series of red lights and short queues, during which he found it easier to ignore both Munakata’s words and Munakata’s person. When he returned to headquarters and began to pull in at the second garage, he heard the clock in the office building strike nine.

‘You could not have been timelier, Fushimi,’ said Munakata in his usual pleasant voice.

‘Thank you,’ said Fushimi through gritted teeth.

They did not talk to each other again until they were in the front yard and about to head off in opposite directions, Munakata to the office building, and Fushimi to the residential hall to change into his uniform.

‘So what do you make of my out-of-hours driving suggestion, Fushimi?’

‘I won’t do eight hours on a daily basis no matter what you say.’

‘Clocking up the required hours is just one aspect of it. Would you feel like going for a drive when I invite you? It could be before or after work, or on days when you are off duty.’

Fushimi was silent. Munakata’s smile widened. ‘You seem to have forgotten that getting your licence is a crucial part of your job at this stage.’

Fushimi bit his bottom lip. He really had no say in this matter. It wasn’t the first time he had wondered why he made the effort to rebel against his boss’s decisions when the result was already set.

‘Alright. Whatever.’

Munakata beamed, before handing over to Fushimi something he had been holding in his hand without Fushimi’s notice. Fushimi took it, frowning: it was a coffee, warm and unopened. 

‘What’s this for?’

‘A reward,’ said Munakata, ‘for saving me the green tea.’

**†**

Fushimi took the coffee to the information room and left it on the first desk he saw. When he returned after lunch break, the coffee was gone. He had no idea who took it, but was relieved it was no longer there. For the next few days, people at the intelligence division started to find random cans of coffee all over the place: on the desk, sandwiched between computers, even on the floor or behind the curtain. Nobody knew who put them there, and as nobody seemed to turn up to claim ownership, it became a habit for the technicians to take it when they found one.

Coffee was not the only thing that popped up out of the unknown - a bulletin board also appeared, on the wall that faced the door. On it were scribblings or notes on certain cases someone was apparently doing a report on. Fushimi was suspected to have set it up. He didn’t, but couldn’t be bothered explaining. One late afternoon, he returned from another spontaneous out-of-town driving session with Munakata, and found Akiyama pinning notes on the board. Since his injury, Akiyama had been confined to office jobs at the information room, and it occurred to Fushimi that Akiyama might be the one who had set up the bulletin board for his own use.

Apparently, Fushimi wasn’t the only person who made the guess. Sometimes he would see a few technicians gathered at the bulletin, making comments on the notes and scribblings and mentioning Akiyama’s name. If there was one thing Fushimi had in common with the rest of his div, it was a feeling of disapproval at seeing a bulletin in the office. There wasn’t anything on it that everyone had to know; it was mostly about whatever Akiyama was working on, and walking into the room to find it full of notes only tricked other people into wondering if there was actually something they all had to be aware of.

But Fushimi also knew that none of the div had broached the subject to Akiyama, either on account of his reputation as the most esteemed Swords commander, or perhaps the fact that he was here only temporarily. In either case, Fushimi often found the rest of the div chatting about Akiyama and his bulletin board whenever they were lounging about in the office not doing much work. And the noise irritated him.

Towards the end of the month, Fushimi had managed to clock up two thirds of the required hours with his supervised road practice. The way he achieved that was either getting up in the middle of the night, or sacrificing his entire weekend. The long-term lack of sleep had seen him trail past being short-tempered and journey towards being chronically lethargic, so much so that he didn’t even bother to click his tongue when he shuffled through the door on a Saturday morning, to find yet again a cluster of intelligence technicians chit-chatting at the bulletin.

‘… The upside of having it here,’ one was saying, ‘is that we get to see what Mr Akiyama’s div’s been doing. This drug dealer case seems to be dragging on for quite a while now.’

‘You’ve been following their case?’ said another.

‘Can’t miss it when new notes are being added each day. I heard there was an emergency dispatch last week. Swords traced down their hideout. In a brewery, on the outskirts of town. Those bastards hide drugs in the vat! There could’ve been massive poisoning.’ 

‘So which of the dealers is a Strain?’

‘We have no clue yet,’ came Akiyama’s voice from the door. Fushimi, already in his usual corner by the window, didn’t look up. Akiyama joined the intelligence technicians at the bulletin. ‘At this stage, we only know a gang member is a Strain, but not which one,’ he added, pinning another note to the board and scribbling beneath it awkwardly with his left hand. His right was still on the mend.

‘You want to keep the bulletin to yourself, Mr Akiyama,’ said a technician. ‘Otherwise we’d spend all our work hours talking about it instead of getting anything done.’

Akiyama looked at him. ‘Don’t you guys use bulletin to share workload or multitask?’

‘Not at this div. We keep to ourselves. To each his own,’ said the technician, casting a sidelong glance in Fushimi’s direction.

‘I can take it down if it bothers you. Only I can’t leave it flat on a desk, it’s too big.’

‘No no. Keep it. It’s sort of nice to see things done … differently. It’s nice, it really is.’

Huddled in his corner, Fushimi snorted. Barely twenty-four hours ago, he had heard the very same technician comment how weird it was to have a bulletin board at ‘his’ div, but that he didn’t dare ask Akiyama to take it down since Akiyama was someone ‘quite phenomenal and probably highly influential’.

‘Oh, alright. If it’s okay with the rest of you,’ Akiyama glanced at the little group around him, to which they all murmured the affirmative. Satisfied, Akiyama went to his desk.

Fushimi didn’t mean to stay long. It was a Saturday. He was due for another driving session in the afternoon, and he only came to the office to do a quick check on the newly tightened security network following the Orange saga. When he rose to leave, the room was empty except for him and Akiyama, who sat with a straight back in his chair, typing. Had he been able to use both hands, he probably would have finished the four-page document by now.

‘Fushimi,’ Akiyama called him when he passed. Knowing Akiyama probably wanted to talk shop, Fushimi paused.

‘I was wondering if your div has been investigating the drug dealer case,’ Akiyama stopped typing. ‘Swords didn’t get everything they need after they raided the Strain hideout. I was thinking maybe that’s when an investigation would be sanctioned.’

Fushimi went to the bulletin board and read the notes. ‘How long has it been up?’

‘The case? About a week now. The raid was last weekend. I’m doing a report. Wouldn’t say it’s comprehensive, given how little my div found on site.’

‘Were you saying it was a Strain gang out in the country?’

‘Yes and no. Only one member is a Strain. And the gang has two hideouts. We raided their brewery site in the country and caught the non-Strain members. They have another hideout at Shizume Town. We are guessing the Strain member may have gone into hiding there.’

Fushimi studied the bulletin again. ‘There’s no mentioning of the Shizume Town hideout.’

‘That’s private intel,’ said Akiyama. ‘I only just received it and haven’t got around to posting and linking it to the rest of what we found so far.’

‘Private intel? Where from?’

‘Captain Munakata.’

Fushimi turned to look at Akiyama. ‘Why is the Captain involved?’

‘It’s something he might consider interesting,’ said Akiyama. ‘With Strain cases, especially those involving criminals, we usually file a separate report to Lieutenant Awashima, who would in turn report to Captain Munakata. You never know which of those cases he would take a shine to.’

Fushimi was silent for so long, Akiyama assumed their conversation had come to an end, so he resumed typing. When he heard Fushimi’s footsteps, however, he suddenly thought of something and called Fushimi again. ‘Sorry,’ he apologised before Fushimi’s expression turned sour, ‘but I haven’t asked if you’re okay with my bulletin. I’ll take it down if you don’t like it.’

Fushimi eyed him for a few seconds, before answering, ’You are right. I don’t like it. But you can keep it there, if you have to.’

‘Great. Thanks.’

‘You really believe what the rest of this div were telling you?’

‘Pardon?’

Fushimi seemed to regret opening the subject. ‘They said they “liked” your bulletin. They don’t.’

‘How do you know?’

Fushimi’s face darkened, ‘Don’t ask me how a chameleon’s mind functions.’

‘Well, at least it won’t be here forever,’ said Akiyama, indicating his bandaged right hand. ‘Neither will I. I will be back on duty soon.’

Fushimi had no idea what to say to that, so he nodded and made his excuse to leave. What Akiyama said about the drug dealer case stuck in his head: Munakata was probing into it because he was interested; Munakata wanted Fushimi to take direct orders from him when he needed Fushimi. However he looked at the matter, Fushimi doubted he would be left out of the loop for long.

He walked towards the second garage, shivering in the cold. It had started to hail again.

 


	18. Layers of Self

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: K belongs to GoRA. This chapter contains scenes (with very liberal interpretations on dialogue) adapted from Memory of Red. I won’t specify which chapter(s) because you can work it out when it starts. 
> 
> A/N: Contains massive amount of Fushimi-angst. You have been warned. Or invited. Take your pick :)

 

 

_‘Adolescence represents an inner emotional upheaval,_

_a struggle between the eternal human wish to cling to the past_

_and the equally powerful wish to get on with the future.’_

_(Louise J. Kaplan)_

 

Fushimi got down on all fours over what appeared to him to be the entrance to a wine cellar, and used both hands to prise the latch at the edge of the circular trapdoor. It came loose with a rusty metallic note. He tugged and dragged until the door lumbered open anti-clockwise from its original position. A ladder appeared, which wasn’t the first of its kind Fushimi encountered since entering this semi-abandoned building. The construction assessor must have a secret ladder fetish to have approved of them whenever lifts or staircases should be used. If Fushimi hadn’t seen it with his own eyes, he would never have believed buildings like this actually existed in Shizume Town of all places.

He lowered himself feet first until one of them found lodgement on one of the many bars, and climbed down. His sabre was being uncooperative by catching and banging first on the edge of the trapdoor, then on the tubes that lay hidden in countless nooks and crannies of the wall that supported the ladder. To add to the pleasantness, his PDA rang, shrill and unrelenting and sending him one step short of finishing his descent so that he landed in an unceremonious heap on the cellar floor. He fished the device from his pocket and pasted it to his ear without glancing at the screen.

‘I’m on site.’

‘Good,’ came Munakata’s voice, with the air of resuming conversation after having made himself a cup of tea. ‘I trust you remember our deal?’

‘You mean your _instructions_ ,’ said Fushimi. ‘“Locate and retreat”. Yes.’

‘“Locate, retreat and contact Arrest Unit”.’

‘You have an Arrest Unit?’

‘No, but I appreciate the idea of having my Swords and Combat Division operate under a sobriquet that suits the occasion.’

Fushimi tuned out after the first syllable, ‘Technically, the subject has time to get away before your men arrive.’

‘I will leave that to you and your sense of delicacy. Keep in mind what I said, and do _not_ act on your own,’ then came a brief pause. ‘Good luck, and stay alive.’

Fushimi hung up with a scowl. Then it dawned on him: he had been having this phone conversation with Munakata while seated on the floor in the same unceremonious heap when he dropped in. He picked himself up, dusted his uniform coat, and looked around. The wine cellar was cramped with barrels that stood from floor to ceiling, all covered in liberal amounts of dust and abandonment. The air didn’t smell of alcohol or grape. It felt very different from the country brewery he had visited two days ago. That place was more like a proper hideout than this one. Fushimi began to pick his way around the barrels, meanwhile paying close attention to the ground at his feet. 

Where the light touched, the ground seemed divided into two halves, one dark, one pale. With the air of someone snubbing out a dropped cigarette, Fushimi ground one foot into the line that divided the two halves until it became murky and mutilated. He lowered himself and examined it closely, then brushed it with his right forefinger and rubbed it over his thumb. It was dust. The dark half was made of as much dust as the pale half was free of it. Fushimi straightened up and looked behind. His footprints were intermittent, showing clearly against the dusty half where he sat foot on it and becoming invisible where he treaded on the clean half. The impression was that someone had dragged a square, concrete something - a cardboard box, for example - across the floor to have created that dust-free trail. 

To hide his track, Fushimi kept to the dust-free half until he reached the depth of the cellar. Here the space narrowed and lengthened to a corridor, dimly lit by shards of light coming in through the occasional patch of filter built into the ceiling. The corridor itself appeared no different than any regular old corridor in a building, except that it had no rooms attached to either side. Fushimi went in, keeping himself in the shadows.

He wasn’t happy with the way this drug dealer investigation had been unfolding. Despite what Munakata said, Fushimi had never felt less like a lackey in all his life. Munakata wouldn’t let Fushimi probe into the case in his own way. All he did was send Fushimi to do the legwork whenever he was needed, which was continually: a trip to the brewery hideout in the country, another to the Department of Liquor Licensing Registration in Nanakamado, a three-day stint in jail (Fushimi’s brain still seethed at the sheer ruthlessness of it) so he could ‘acclimatise to the ways of the wrongdoers, earn their trust, and ask them questions using their jargon’, followed by attending a two-day hearing for an established drug trafficking case at court, and - finally - this final tightening of the net in the basement of a dodgy-looking building that, according to Munakata, was the hiding place of ‘the subject’.

Throughout the investigation, Fushimi’s actions had been governed by whatever intelligence Munakata decided to feed him via phone calls or text messages. Fushimi wasn’t allowed to carry out his own investigation. At all. For the first time, he came to understand what it was like to be a marionette; even his descent via the ladder earlier on had ended in a marionette-with-all-its-strings-cut tumble, because Munakata had failed to inform him he was supposed to put one foot down after the other until either of them touched solid ground. 

He walked on, footsteps echoing in the dimly lit corridor, his thoughts on the latest instruction from Munakata. _Locate and retreat_. Simple as that. The simplest command could well be the most cryptic. Munakata had been sure this was the subject’s - the Strain’s - hiding place. No one knew how he worked it out. Fushimi didn’t, anyway, and would much prefer working it out himself if he hadn’t been given the chance. Acting on second-hand intelligence felt strange, unwarranted, like groping in the dark while being traced by someone via a remote sensor.

The corridor tapered to a crevice. Fushimi squeezed through, shoulder first, before finding himself in an open area with one corridor on either side, looking increasingly and disturbingly like the entrance to a labyrinth. Fushimi’s journey into Orange’s underground data centre hadn’t exactly endeared him to the exploring of labyrinth-y structures. In silent despair, he checked both corridors. They resembled the one he just came through: straight, dimly lit and deadly quiet. Hopefully there wouldn’t be extra branches or tunnels to wind him up. As if to echo his sense of apprehension, his PDA navigator hummed and presented a buzzing, blank screen that suggested lack of signal: he had to navigate his own way around here.

Fushimi picked the corridor on the left side after having spotted a door or two further down the track. Doors meant rooms, which probably meant more discoveries. He stopped by the first door, which stood ajar, and peered inside. It was a deserted walk-in closet. Whatever was put in there was caked with a layer of dust so thick it was no longer possible to make out what the things were. Desperate as the Strain subject might be, he couldn’t hide in there without leaving the dust undisturbed in any way possible. The Strain’s ability, according to Munakata, was that he was able to sense people in the dark, not hide his own presence.

The other door close by proved to be the entrance to another walk-in closet. None of these actually opened onto rooms, Fushimi arrived at this conclusion after checking all the doors he could find, not bothering to keep quiet as he rummaged through the dusty contents with the tip of his sabre. If anything, he was hoping the noise he made would startle the Strain and propel him into attack mode. _Locate and retreat_ , hmm. Nothing in there to suggest that “locate” meant no combat. And sure enough, after picking around behind two or three doors, he heard a steady clunk, clunk radiating close from somewhere to his right. 

Clunk. Clunk. Clunk.  It sounded like a mixture between footsteps and crutches striking the floor. Or maybe the person in question was walking with one foot considerably larger than the other and made of some heavy, metal-based material. Fushimi’s pace quickened by a tad.

The attack came swifter than expected. A flying lump shot from behind the corner and lunged at Fushimi like a cannon ball. Fushimi flung himself sideways, then drew his sabre, which in turn drew on all his frustration at playing Munakata’s lackey since the start of investigation and came down between him and the cannon ball like a grenade. The explosion was enormous, mostly because Fushimi had missed the target and hit what appeared to be a boarded up window. Shards of glass and wood flew everywhere, amid a stream of broad daylight that was suddenly stabbing Fushimi in the eyes, to the point that for a moment he stood where he was, sabre in hand, and stared point-blank at the spot where his target had been, blinded and unable to locate anything.

A moment was all he had. As his eyes adjusted to the brightness, grip tightening on the sabre, the expected attack didn’t come. He stared, and as his field of vision restored, found his target staring back at him, wearing a beanie, a skateboard under one foot.

A moment of heart-stopping silence. Then Fushimi’s mental guards scrambled to attention and he slipped them on with the ease of twiddling a finger. He couldn’t risk slipping up in front of this particular person, who, despite having recognised him almost at the same time, was still staring in that characteristically stupid manner. A small, cynical voice inside Fushimi laughed derisively: _one year. One whole bloody year and you haven’t changed at all._

‘Fancy seeing you here, Misaki,’ the cynical voice seized control of Fushimi’s mouth and he found himself speaking in a tone he didn’t remember himself capable of possessing. Every particle of him tightened and rejoiced with a sickening fervour in the look on Yata’s face - one of angered defiance, mingled with pain and lingering surprise.

Yata eyed him. To Fushimi, the look on his face was almost comical. He began to abuse his brain into conjuring up something more scathing to say, but at that moment Yata’s expression changed: the surprise remained, but the pain and defiance were gone, replaced by loathing.  

‘Why are _you_ here?!’

The cynical voice inside Fushimi gloated. Yata was rising to the bait. ‘It’s part of my job,’ he said, arrogance dripping from each and every syllable. ‘ _Unlike someone_ , I actually have things to do where I am.’

Yata stared at him. It seemed that his brain was torn between having to choose an expression of either hatred or alarm to dominate his face, found both options equally tempting and viable, and in the end settled on displaying half and half.

‘What sort of things could you be doing _here_?’ he said, using his brashest vanguard voice. ‘Is Scepter 4 after the same criminal as us?’

‘Not as criminal as your snoring alpha and his pack of grovelling minions. Catching Strain subjects is part of what Scepter 4 does,’ countered Fushimi. ‘Now get out of my way.’

It wasn’t exactly a command, because Yata wasn’t standing anywhere in Fushimi’s way to begin with. Next time, Fushimi thought, next time he had to word his insult in a more explicit manner. Apparently Yata’s negligible intellect took forever to catch up on Fushimi’s ‘an snoring alpha and his pack of grovelling minions’ as a reference to his beloved Red Clan.

‘Are you suggesting - ’ Yata began heatedly, but Fushimi silenced him with a scowl. That done, Fushimi turned to inspect the debris-covered surroundings, hating himself more than Yata for the fact that Yata actually obeyed him and shut up. Anger surged inside him: this wasn’t what he wanted. Yata should be attacking him like the enemy he vowed to be, not listening to him like he used to, when they were still each other’s sidekick in another life.

A cluster of boxes in a corner attracted Fushimi’s attention. This was the corner Yata had emerged from, so the boxes were on the other side of the corridor. Fushimi didn’t remember seeing boxes unless he counted the wine barrels he saw when he first dropped in. He sank the tip of his sabre into one of the boxes, watching with morbid satisfaction as blade tore through cardboard like a cleaver tearing through an oozing wound. Through the gash, plastic sachets fell out in a torrent of white dust, which rose and tainted the air with a sharp, pungent scent.

‘Drugs.’

His voice was echoed by Yata’s, who sounded more disgusted than matter-of-fact. Yata’s face was screwed up with fury, which wasn’t directed at Fushimi. Realising it, Fushimi’s insides seethed with malice.

‘So this Mogura nutcase’s really plotting stuff in our territory,’ said Yata, entering something on his PDA watch. ‘Chief’s going to give him a piece of his mind!’

The malice inside Fushimi was now wrestling with a tidal wave of jealousy, but not before his brain latched onto the slightly more revealing part of Yata’s monologue: the Strain subject’s name was ‘Mogura’; Munakata hadn’t told him that. Either he didn’t know, or he didn’t think it mattered. Fushimi thrust his sabre back into the sheath and allowed the mixture of malice and jealousy to overtake him. It boiled dark burgundy, like dried blood.

‘What?’ Yata looked up, annoyed: the fact that Fushimi had snorted with derision didn’t escape his notice. At this, Fushimi looked down at Yata with loathing: the contrast between their heights was helping to bring it to full effect.

‘You haven’t changed one bit,’ Fushimi’s voice aided the look in his eyes. ‘You’re always wagging your tail at that Chief of yours. Like you’re in a tribe or something. You’ve got to practically throw yourself at his feet to win his favour, haven’t you?’

Instead of offended, Yata looked hurt. The retaliation Fushimi was pining for wasn’t coming, so he went on, ‘That’s just the sort of place Homra is, isn’t it? A tribe, a pack of savages with no more sense than the visceral, barbaric instinct to prowl and growl and dominate. And you’re one of them because you’ll never grow out of that confined mental prison you call home. You simply can’t survive without having someone looking down on you and bossing you around like the pitiful midget minion that you are. You - ’

‘Screw you!’ Yata was crimson with anger. Fushimi’s inner voice revelled while his heart lodged in his throat with an agony that his brain ignored. ‘Hit a nerve, did I, midget minion Misaki? Can’t stand having your beloved Chief Mikoto picked on, can you? You’ve got to do everything in your power to keep him on the throne because you’re too insignificant to take his place, haven’t you?’

Yata pounced and grabbed Fushimi by the lapel. ‘One more word - ’

Click.

They both froze at the sound. Another click, this time closer and more metallic, like the sound of loading a gun. Yata released Fushimi and stared at the depth of the corridor. Fushimi squinted, straining his eyes in the same direction: when did the light go out? 

‘Was that - ?’

‘Shut up.’

Yata moved so Fushimi wasn’t blocking his field of vision. ‘I reckon I heard - ’

Another click. Then a beep, followed by an eerie silence while the air became contaminated with the slightest tinge of something acrid and pungently sour. The realisation of what it was chilled Fushimi to the core: he hadn’t left Homra long enough to forget what gunpowder smelt like. Next to him, Yata made a sudden movement.

‘Dammit!’

A blinding flash. Then the sound, tearing, expanding, filling the air with bone-searing heat. A strange sensation struck Fushimi, which he had never before experienced. He watched with wide eyes as his body was ejected from wherever it was, flew through the air, made a wide arc, then began its irrepressible plummet towards the ground. Meanwhile there was a steady ringing in his ears that caused his brain to vibrate and his thoughts to go fuzzy around the edges, as did his vision when the ground beneath him expanded at almost exponential speed. Then something else happened that his eyes didn’t quite pick up; another force, probably a bigger one, sent him turning like a carcass strung over a spit roast. And then something else, something heavy and inordinate, crashed into him, sending him crashing into whatever was beneath him like the final card of a domino set. 

Fushimi tried to stir, and regretted it the moment his body actually did. Pain exploded like an erupting volcano from his midriff and melted towards his extremities; his brain protested by sending a vomiting signal to his stomach, where the muscle tightened in a weak gesture to obey, before giving it up as a hopeless business and directing his brain’s attention to some other part of his body, this time his forehead, where something sticky and surprisingly warm was trickling down his face. 

Something, or someone, shifted on top of him; and all of a sudden Fushimi understood why his stomach was hurting so much. Someone was digging their knees into it. An image of the Strain subject sprang to the forefront of his mind: he was pinned down, had lost, and was now going to be killed. The bones in his right shoulder made a collective and involuntary effort to steer his right arm towards his sabre, and the muscles in his right arm screamed before tearing up and sending hot, stabbing lance of agony squarely towards his brain. The Strain he was supposed to catch had him pinned to the ground and he wasn’t even able to make a grab at a final act of defence. Rage uncoiled inside him: he made another effort to sit up, which didn’t work until the pain in his stomach lifted with what he recognised was the weight of the person on top of him.

’S-Sorry - ’

Fushimi peered across curtains of drying blood at the blurry figure in front of him. The moment he recognised who it was, he shifted so violently he was almost springing to his feet from his current supine position without the intermediate stage of sitting up. He failed dismally.

‘Sod off!’ his voice came out fuelled with real anger. Then he tried again, Yata scrambling away and watching him like a prey watching a wounded predator. Fushimi sat up, managed to apply a certain amount of strength to his legs, then winced as pain erupted in the vicinity of his right knee.

‘Are you hurt?’

Fushimi glared at Yata, ‘Shut the hell up.’

Yata eyed him darkly for a moment, before turning to their surroundings. 

‘There was a cave-in,’ he said. ‘Looks like we’re now below ground level.’

‘We already were before that Strain bastard tossed a grenade at us.’

‘How d’you know it was a grenade?’ Yata was sounding argumentative again, not to mention completely missing the point. Fushimi ignored him. His leg was bleeding profusely, as was the gash in his forehead. He found his glasses near the spot he lay on and shoved them up his nose. The debris he was sitting in appeared to consist of chunks of concrete; the remains of the corridor looked unfamiliar. They had to be one level lower than they were; the huge crater where the ceiling used to be leered down at him.

‘We’re trapped,’ he said in the same voice someone would use when stating that one and one makes two.

Yata threw him a glance that spelt horror in capital letters.

‘Not with you.’

‘Like I want it to happen.’

Silence swallowed them both as they contemplated what lay ahead.

‘This isn’t a corridor any more,’ said Yata, breaking the silence first. ‘More like a sewer.’ He stood with his back to the debris, facing what appeared to be the only way out: a dark, muddy-looking tunnel. 

A part of Fushimi’s conscious stirred mournfully as it made a mental connection to Orange’s data centre. His face, however, kept the same facade of irritation and boredom. Yata was right; they probably had to climb up a sewer if they ever made it out of here. With stoic savageness he forced himself into a standing position, and tapped his right foot against the debris. The bleeding became worse, but he could tell the bones were unhurt. That would be enough. He rummaged around the debris until he picked out a plank that seemed comparatively intact, then tore a stripe from a half-buried canvas and tied it around the end of the plank.

‘What’re you doing?’ came Yata’s voice. Fushimi turned to him, holding out the makeshift torch.

‘Light it,’ he said, before adding; ‘PDA torches won’t last long.’ He had had enough of PDA batteries dying on him when he was trapped underground.

Yata took it, and was halfway towards summoning his fire aura before snapping, ’Why are you bossing me around?!’

‘Just shut the hell up and do as you’re told, midget minion.’

Seething, Yata lit the torch. And soon enough, retorting was pushed to the back of his mind as he stared open-mouthed at the fire-lit tunnel in front of him.

‘Doesn’t look like part of the building above at all,’ he was muttering. ‘To think Mogura could’ve hidden as much drugs as he likes down here, and nobody ever finds out.’

Fushimi did his best to hide the limp in his right leg as he walked within range of the torch. Around him, he couldn’t see anything apart from the roughly carved walls. No sign of boxes. No trace of drug. He thought of the brewery site: boxes like those he discovered above were hidden at the bottom of two of the three vats. What unnerved him was the uncanny way the drugs were disguised as ordinary pharmacy medicine. But that wasn’t the point. The point was getting out of here, before locating the Strain subject for a second time. _Locate and retreat._ Fushimi smiled bitterly as the wound in his right leg gave a sharp twinge. _Fancy retreating with a bad leg._ He could almost see Munakata in his mind’s eye, smiling derisively at him, at his limp.

He walked to the very edge of the torch-covered area. He couldn’t see very far into the total darkness ahead, but something told him this tunnel wasn’t long. Perhaps his senses had somewhat become attuned to the geography of underground tunnels, no thanks to his mission at Orange’s data centre.

‘Get going,’ he said without looking back at Yata. ‘We need to secure an exit, which isn’t going to happen if you stay where you are ogling at a muddy wall for the rest of your miserable life.’

Yata leapt like an enraged animal until he was well ahead of Fushimi. ‘Stop talking like you’re the boss ‘round here! “secure an exit”. As if I needed telling!’

Fushimi’s instinctive reaction was to reply in more scathing terms, but Yata had already turned his back on him and was making his way down the tunnel, torch in hand. Fushimi sighed, and began to follow the source of light. He really could do with getting out of here as soon as possible.

His boots were making a distinct and very different sound to that from Yata’s trainers. And sure enough, Yata was quick to catch on to it. ‘Stop following me!’

Fushimi’s viciousness made a reappearance, ‘Stop walking ahead of me, then!’ 

Yata turned so their glares clashed. Neither was backing down. In the end they settled for the compromise of walking side by side. Yata was uncharacteristically silent. Half of Fushimi wondered what Yata was thinking, while the other half of him tried not to wince as his trouser rubbed off the clotting on his leg wound, causing it to swell and bleed again.

Presently they emerged and were faced with another tunnel, running perpendicular to the one they had exited. This tunnel looked like a deserted railway, if Tokyo’s intricately woven underground system had ever dug this deep. Fushimi stood still, secretly grateful that Yata was taking longer than needed to examine their surroundings. He was starting to feel a bit queasy, probably from a mixture of walking too much, and being stuck underground in close proximity to a makeshift torch that was feeding off what little oxygen there was available. 

When Yata started moving across the railway, Fushimi stared at the back of his beanie-covered head for a good few seconds before hastening to move on. Standing still had taken its toll on him: the wound beneath his right knee gave another twinge, and his legs gave out without warning. Fushimi sank to the ground so hard, his brain experienced a fleeting moment of free fall before landing with a squelch on the bottom of his cranial cavity. His vision swayed.

‘Where do you reckon we - hey!’

Fushimi opened his eyes to the most disconcerting sight his current situation would subject him to: Yata crouching in front of him, a look of concern on his face. In between, the torch burnt merrily, brandishing heat and lack of oxygen in front of Fushimi’s swimming head.

Get away, Fushimi muttered. Then he realised it had happened in his mind. His mouth had gone on leave without permit. Blame his oxygen-deprived brain.

 _‘_ Is it that bad? _’_ Yata asked, briefly locking gaze with Fushimi before dropping his eyes to Fushimi’s right knee, where the trouser leg was saturated with blood. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘Piss off and shut up,’ Fushimi regained control of his mouth and spat out the words in protest. 

‘Now YOU shut up!’ Yata retorted, sounding, for the first time, more vicious than Fushimi did. ‘Stay put or I’ll knock you out.’ He tore a stripe of cloth off his hoodie and tied it around Fushimi’s wound. ‘Can I ask you something?’ he said, after an awkward pause.

Fushimi was silent, so Yata went on, sounding torn and genuinely upset. ‘Why did you betray us?’

Still, Fushimi didn’t say anything, but his ears had picked up the word ‘us’ and his brain was churning with hurt and fury at the number of people the collective was encompassing.

‘I’ve no idea why you did it,’ Yata continued. ‘That’s why I’ve been so worked up. I dunno why you betrayed us.’

The collective jarred Fushimi from head to toe. He stood up, ignoring the pain in his leg, and walked away from Yata, who apparently didn’t catch the look on his face and wasn’t anywhere near giving up on wringing a reply out of him.

‘What does Homra mean to you?’ he persisted. ‘Do we mean _anything_ to you at all?’

Fushimi paused. What had the Red Clan meant to him? He didn’t know, that was the short if not truthful answer. The fact lay within him - he didn’t want to know that he did know. As long as Yata kept referring to himself and his Clan as a collective, he, Fushimi, would go on pretending he couldn’t understand questions like the one he was given. There were better ways to make Yata forget the whole business: a few words of twisted taunts was more than sufficient to launch Yata into a blood-boiling fury, and only then would Yata push Homra, bloody damned Homra, out of his mind and instead focus on him, on Fushimi. Alone.  

Taunts were all they needed. Fushimi turned to look at Yata, who stood rooted to the spot. To get a rise out of Yata was the easiest thing ever, as easy as saying to Munakata things that Fushimi didn’t mean. He opened his mouth.

A loud grinding noise. They saw surprise reflected in each other’s eyes, before spinning on the spot to face the tunnel they had just exited. Yata kicked off on his skateboard.

‘Can’t be that Mogura bastard - ?’

Another loud grinding noise, then a face appeared, shrouded in semi-darkness, lit by a torch floating in mid-air. The face was hidden behind sunglasses. Fushimi’s eyes moved to the black little hole that seemed to protrude from the man’s hand. Understanding struck him, followed by horror. He hadn’t been hallucinating when he thought he heard a gun being loaded earlier on. Knives shot out from his sleeve as he dragged Yata, skateboard and all, behind a large crate he had spotted behind the opening of the opposite tunnel. The moment he dropped down, he heard the sound of metal striking metal, then a loud clang as something was flung heavily against the ground, and then the drumming of bullets into the other side of the crate.

‘I’m gonna kill that bastard!’

Fushimi could sense heat radiating off an infuriated Yata. ‘As much as he can use his power as a pair of night vision goggles, he can’t see through the crate.’ Then the unfamiliar darkness around them sank in. ‘You dropped the torch,’ Fushimi turned to Yata. ‘Light it.’

Yata rounded on him, ’Stop bossing me around!’ 

Fushimi thought it best to ignore Yata when he was angry about other things, but Yata kept on, ‘I thought you’ve perhaps landed a few mates to help you out now that you’re in the Blue Clan. Turns out you’re as much a loner as you were when you were with us! Loner! Loner!’

‘Mates?’ Fushimi’s temper ground into top gear. ‘I don’t prance around the place boasting about bonding with the lot of them idiots like you do! I don’t need any sodding mate. I’m not like you, you _loser._ And in case you didn’t notice, capturing this Mogura bastard is part of my job!’

‘Loner!’ Yata hissed.

‘Loser!’ Fushimi hissed back.

‘So why’re you working _here_ of all places?’ cried Yata, forgetting about Mogura. ‘You must be working ‘round the clock ‘cos you can’t finish it on time! You’re caught in your stupid stuck-up Blue Backlog and you ain’t gonna get out of here any soon to catch up on anything!’

‘Whatever backlog I’ve got is a million and half times better than what you’ve got, which is _nothing whatsoever_!’ Fushimi shouted back, throwing Strain subject and ‘locate and retreat’ to the wind. ‘That’s why you are such a huge loser, you midget. You’re literally the hugest loser with a hugest inflected ego so huge you’re gonna pop if people prod you and then you’d be splattered all over the place and your perpetually snoring Chief and grovelling fellow minions would spend the rest of their bedraggled and besotted existence picking bits of you out their nails and from between their - ’

Fushimi paused mid-sentence to catch his breath, then saw Yata’s eyes widen in shock. Something was floating between them, and it was buzzing. Dangerously. Fushimi’s eyes landed on it, and felt the breath he hadn’t been able to catch drowning in a sea of adrenaline.

‘Not another grenade - ?!’

A deafening boom. Fushimi blinked away the rain of dust and cement, and found himself on all fours while Yata sprawled by his side. Had it been a real grenade, they wouldn’t have survived.

‘Screw that Mogura,’ Yata spat out a mouthful of cement. ‘We’ve got to get out of here if we want to bash him around like properly.’ 

Fushimi stood up. The grenade-like distraction had returned him to his senses. Also returning were memories of the question Yata had asked when he bandaged the wound on Fushimi’s leg. Fushimi hadn’t quite got around to getting his message across, taunts or not.

‘What you were asking,’ he said, and his tone claimed Yata’s slightly startled attention, ‘about what Homra means to me and stuff,’ he paused to inject vehemence to what was to come. ‘Homra is nothing more than a street gang with special powers. Nothing different from that Mogura person. It’s just a bunch of hooligans vs. a single hooligan. Nothing else.’

Yata’s face grew still. When there was too much going on on Yata’s face, it annoyed and goaded Fushimi. When it was still like it was right now, it unnerved him because Yata was rarely like this and shouldn’t be like this.

‘What you just said. Did you mean it?’

Fushimi froze, then ducked as another bullet shower pounded the crate that shielded him. Yata wasn’t very quick in sidestepping, so a stray bullet soared past his shoulder, singeing the fabric. He swore, righted his skateboard and looked down at Fushimi, who was sitting next to the crate. Fushimi caught Yata eyeing the bandage on his leg, and tensed.

‘You can’t beat me on speed with that wound,’ he said in a no-nonsense tone Fushimi didn’t recognise. ‘I’ll go and get that bastard. Then you can finish off the rest if you want to.’

Fushimi’s eyes widened in shock. ‘Are you telling me I ought to hide here and let you protect me?’

‘What else do you want? I’m no good at playing sneaky. I can do head-on charge. This is a head-on charge situation,’ Yata said, swelling with what could only be pride. ‘I’m from _Homra_ and no one messes with us.’

Fushimi got to his feet, his leg hurting. This was it. This was the last time he could stomach Yata’s pride at calling himself ‘one of Homra’, or referring to himself as if he was an inseparable part of a collective body. And Yata wanted him to sit back and enjoy the view while Yata himself charged on like some sort of war hero out there to save his friend’s sorry arse. Fushimi wasn’t Yata’s friend, would never be one of Yata’s ‘many friends that were collectively called Homra’. A little more than a year ago, Yata had said he _hated_ Fushimi; what he was doing now, shielding Fushimi from harm, was the biggest betrayal of what he had said, and Fushimi wasn’t capable of processing any amount of betrayal _by_ Yata, _of_ Yata’s feelings towards him: hate, or otherwise. He wouldn’t humour Yata on this. Not ever.

He drew his sabre. The blade glinted electric blue as aura streamed from where his hand made contact with the handle. Ahead of him, Yata was a blur of swift movement and crimson flame. Fushimi leant his weight on his uninjured leg, and leapt. 

What followed couldn’t be described as the best thought-out fight by the standards of either Clan. Neither Yata nor Fushimi acknowledged the other’s involvement. Neither would ever, ever dream of attacking the Strain criminal like they used to as a pair. Yata was all fists and kicks and loud, blind bashes using the back of his skateboard, whereas Fushimi, never trained as a Swords member, used his sabre like an elongated if un-throwable version of his many knives, never bothering to be careful lest he stabbed Yata along the way, yet somehow never actually coming close to hurting him. Their combined effort was as chaotic as it was deadly: without their noticing, they were slowly overwhelming Mogura, who preferred guns and long-distance combat but couldn’t get away enough to launch a counterattack. 

When Mogura used his bullets to deflect one of Fushimi’s many knives, the tip of Fushimi’s sabre appeared where Mogura wasn’t expecting and caught him painfully in the side. And then just as he managed to extricate himself, Yata landed on top of him with pummelling fists and eardrum-tearing shouts mingled with insults and swearwords. After a brief yet intense ten minutes, the odds had swung decidedly against Mogura, who never managed to enter attack mode because he couldn’t get Yata off him long enough. Finally, with Yata on top of him, his defences broke down and he allowed himself to be crushed to the ground with Yata’s skateboard over his head.

‘Alright, boys. You win.’

‘Who are you calling boys?!’ Yata smashed his weight against the skateboard and heard a sickening crunch from beneath. 

Mogura spoke again, sounding uninjured and unfazed. ‘I see no way out of this, anyhow. What do you want from me?’

Fushimi straightened up, panting. He had managed to restrain Mogura’s hands using a manifestation of his Blue aura. It wasn’t anything like the real Strain cuffs he’d seen in Scepter 4’s interrogation room, but he couldn’t risk using ordinary chains in case part of Mogura’s power package was breaking any physical bounds with ease.  

‘I, want, you, to, come, to, S-Scepter, four,’ Fushimi wheezed, torn between triple tasks of breathing, maintaining his aura control over Mogura, and keeping his legs from giving out.

‘I gather you’re one of them.’

‘I, work, for, them.’

‘All the same. Righto. You’ve got the rest of my men anyway, so I might as well drop in to say hello. And this one,’ Mogura gestured with his cuffed hands towards Yata. ‘Get him off me, will you? He’s annoying as is without being the heaviest midget I’ve ever fought. He has to be a compact biscuit to weigh this much.’

‘Who are you calling a midget and a compact biscuit??!!’

Fushimi took out his PDA, and managed to relay the capture to a Swords member on overnight shift while pretending not to hear or react to the slew of profanity from an overly incensed Yata.

**†**

 

When Fushimi stuck his head out of the sewer, the first of the morning sun greeted him by means of stabbing him painfully in the eyes. Then the morning chill followed as he emerged further from underground, the wind tearing through his clothes like knife through softened butter. Yata, who got out ahead of him, capered on the footpath with T-shirt on and hoodie tied around his waist. Fushimi stared in disbelief. 

‘It’s the evening,’ Yata whined. ‘I wasted so much time being stuck under there.’

‘It’s the morning,’ said Fushimi, trying to blink away the headache brought on by what he presumed was bright daylight.

Yata looked around, bemused. ‘Are you winding me up? It’s the evening.’

Fushimi blinked again. The bright daylight was still there, but had dimmed a bit. Why was he under the impression that it was early morning? He checked his PDA. 3 AM. Everything ought to be in pitch black, except that they were in the heart of Shizume Town where street lights were never off. Perhaps his overnight driving sessions with Munakata had messed up his circadian cycle to the extent that he was starting to see things. Fushimi rubbed his eyes; the movement of dipping his head caused another surge of pain between his temples. He opened his eyes again: this time he was seeing street lights instead of daylight. He dusted his coat.

Yata was still there. When Fushimi looked up, Yata looked away, showing Fushimi a very disgruntled-looking profile. Quite inexplicably, the sight reminded Fushimi of Munakata’s instructions before he went down the cellar. _Locate, retreat and contact Arrest Unit._ What he had done was more like _locate, expose himself, fighting without permission, then leave the mess to Swords._ He supposed he could do with a disgruntled face should Munakata contact him for a follow-up.

‘Saruhiko.’

‘What?’

‘I, um, you know I was thinking,’ said Yata without looking at Fushimi. ‘I was thinking all the while we were fighting Mogura and later finding our way out. I still sort of see you as one of my friends, you know.’

Fushimi’s headache doubled in intensity. He fought it down with a short laugh more aimed at himself than at Yata or his stupid comment. ‘What you said,’ he whispered, ‘about me being “one of your friends” - ’

‘Uh-huh?’

‘Is rubbish,’ Fushimi’s voice rose. ‘Every damned word of it. It means nothing to me, you stupid little midget.’

Yata coloured with anger at the last word. Fushimi, however, didn’t give him time to fight back. He advanced on Yata, bearing down on him like a predator cornering its prey. 

‘I’m not your “friend”,’ said Fushimi, relishing the look of confused hurt on Yata’s face, ‘nor your “partner” or chum or mate, nor “comrade-in-arms”, nor anything. I’m not your _anything._ I find the whole lot of you disgustingly boring. I don’t grovel at Great Chief The Red King’s feet. I’m not joining his fan club. So there. I betrayed everyone on your side. You can’t forget that.’

Fushimi paused to let the message sink in, and to relish the look of hurt-turned-rage on Yata’s face. He really was supposed to relish it, like he had done in the basement; it had been a year since they saw one another face to face. He really was supposed to milk the opportunity and taunt Yata till he combusted. But his headache was hammering against the inside of his skull, distracting him: whether it was his biological clock-driven body telling him to cram in some last minute of sleep before Munakata woke him to another driving session, or something more worrisome, he didn’t know and cared less.

He fixed his eyes on Yata, who for a moment looked like he was really going to burst with anger and start another fight. This was it. Fushimi saw Yata’s fingers tighten on the skateboard, over the hoodie that draped around it. Yata was going to use his skateboard, was going to use it on Fushimi like he had used it on Mogura. Fushimi’s muscles tingled with anticipation.

‘Stuff it,’ said Yata. ‘You know what? I haven’t got time mucking around with an invalid.’

Fushimi gaped, and for a moment suspected he really was hallucinating. Damn Munakata and his round-the-clock driving sessions.

‘I said, I haven’t got time mucking around with an invalid. You, that is,’ repeated Yata, half exasperated. ‘Wait till you get better. I’m not the brains around here, but even I can tell you were working yourself into a right state trying to hide that limp.’ He paused for a moment, before adding with a tinge of savage pleasure, ‘And you look like crap, you know. Absolute crap. Like someone called back from the dead but hasn’t been fed whatever creepy slimy stuff that dead people usually feed on. If this’s what you get from growing taller, I’m getting a refund.’

Fushimi realised his gaping had lodged itself in place, so he snapped his mouth shut, feeling another twinge travelling from his closed jaw up his nose and right into the centre of his brain. He hated it when everyone but he noticed he wasn’t looking well. And he definitely wouldn’t have wanted Yata to see him like this if Yata’s comment on his appearance was any indication.

‘Go back to your league of grovelling minions, then,’ he sneered. ‘If you can’t be bothered fighting me, go back where you came from and bond with your little chums. Go on. The sheer sight of you gives me the worst of headaches.’ This last part hadn’t been completely untrue: he was indeed experiencing one of his worst headaches, except that he wasn’t entirely sure if Yata’s presence was the cause of it.

‘Why can’t you just shut up about that bit on grovelling minions!’ Yata riled up. ‘For the past hell-knows-how-long you’ve been pecking a hole in my brain with that! You’re worse than my Mum when she tries to get me started on schoolwork!’

The revelation about Yata’s Mum plunged them both into silence, a silence that was ages old and refused to ebb away and was somehow still connecting them to something neither of them could formulate. Then the silence was broken. Yata, seemingly unsure how to face Fushimi following that remark, had turned on his heels. Soon his small figure disappeared under the shadows where street lights failed to touch.

Fushimi stared at the tarmac at his feet. Between the two of them, he was always the slowest to come out of anything, be it shock, joy, anger, sadness, a habit, or an illness. Anything. Whatever gripped both of them, Yata was the one who always had his own emotions under control, much as his loud and brash personality might claim otherwise. Fushimi, on the other hand, was always the one lagging behind, because he rarely dived into anything, and once he dived, he dived hard and couldn’t get out of it until a piece of him was torn and lost along with it. He was the one that always clung on, on, on, believing no more in false promises than Yata did, yet never quite able to just let go simply because he had to.

He turned until he faced the direction he should go, but his feet were glued to the ground. By his slowness, his unwillingness to let go. Leaving meant turning over a page; a page he told himself not to look twice at, despite knowing the real he was anything but resolute, especially when it concerned Yata.

The first beep from Fushimi’s PDA didn’t rattle him, but it did get him going, his common sense clicking into gear while the tiny part that was _him before his parting with Yata_ retreated behind the many layers of carefully cultivated self he usually wore around his workplace.

‘Fushimi speaking.’

‘So,’ came Munakata’s voice, ‘you are still alive.’

‘No need to sound so disappointed, sir,’ said Fushimi, his voice crystal clear despite the raging headache. ‘The Strain subject has been dealt with.’

‘Not as per instruction, I believe?’ Munakata’s tone had a certain delicacy to it that Fushimi recognised was his normal way of conveying criticism. ‘You seem to have forgotten our deal.’

‘Your _instructions_ ,’ Fushimi corrected for the second time.

‘Whichever you prefer. You certainly acted on your own volition more than once during the mission.’

‘So what if I did?’ Fushimi said, in the undisturbed deadpan voice that he knew Munakata would interpret as slightly out of line, because he had meant it that way. ‘You want me to take direct orders from you. So far I’ve done a lot more than a lackey would be persuaded to do. You’ve got me to do whatever you want, and now you’re forcing me to do it exactly how you want. I’m a member at the intelligence division, not your stooge.’

‘Correct,’ said Munakata, ‘because you can do anything you set your mind to. And you know that yourself.’

Fushimi had expected his complaint to backfire, but not in such a complimentary light. He went to a taxi parked by the footpath; he couldn’t trust his legs to do the walking all the way from here to the headquarters.

‘Do I get reimbursed if I take a taxi?’ he asked, ignoring how pathetic and desperate the question might sound.

‘You will,’ said Munakata in a kinder voice, ‘but you have to know this, Fushimi. If you had worked harder on your driving sessions and obtained your licence before today’s mission - ’

‘That’s not the point,’ Fushimi cut in. ‘Ask me out for another session tonight and I really will have to prang the car.’

Something in his tone had definitely come off as unusual, because Munakata asked, in a voice even kinder than the one he adopted earlier, ‘Did something happen?’

Fushimi felt a mighty pull at the back of his mind. It was from the part of him that refused to let go of the past, the part of him that came to the surface and took full reign of his body when he had been with Yata.

‘Nothing,’ he said with the slightest tremor at the top of his voice box. ‘Nothing at all, sir.’ 

 

 


	19. Spin the Sabre

_‘Acquired tastes are always more pleasant - and hard to get rid of.’_

_(Patricia Highsmith - ‘The Price of Salt’)_

 

Mogura, the drug dealer, came out as the first Strain criminal to have stayed in Scepter 4’s underground prison for an extended period of time. Other criminals, according to Munakata, were simply interrogated, put on power-restraining cuffs, then transferred to the research centre in Nanakamado where they undertook training to regulate their powers. In this regard they were treated like non-criminal Strains.

The reason Mogura was subjected to prison life at Scepter 4 lay in his involvement with drug trafficking, which was a crime serious enough to warrant long-term custody. With Mogura detained at Scepter 4 and his powers brought under control, Munakata believed his role as ex-gang leader and top drug dealer would come in handy if similar Strain criminals had to be brought to justice. Awashima had looked slightly worried at Munakata’s explanation, but decided not to question her superior because something about Munakata’s air when he made the announcement dispelled her doubts.

Meanwhile, Fushimi finished his required road sessions and passed his final test, which took place ten days after Mogura was taken into custody. During those ten days, Fushimi continued to survive on less than five hours of sleep per day as well as massive amounts of caffeine strong enough to cause cardiac arrest in an elephant. It was the only way to wedge sufficient driving hours around his usual workload.

The day after Fushimi’s road test was a Friday. His horse-sitting shift was scheduled at five o’clock, but he woke up at three after what felt like a half-hour doze hunched over his desk, and had no memory of when he dozed off, or how. The moment he drifted back into consciousness, headache hit him in the form of a continuous throbbing along his hairline. Fushimi had had more than enough headaches since the start of his road practice to have learnt what a certain kind of pain meant: throbbing usually heralded caffeine withdrawal or overdose, as opposed to stabbing, which could mean anything from the onset of a cold to having been in the same car with Munakata for longer than five hours in one go.

Fushimi had no idea why it was throbbing he was subjected to at this particular hour. He wasn’t undergoing caffeine withdrawal, far from it. Overdose was more likely, but not a hundred per cent certainty. To settle the dispute, Fushimi picked a cappuccino instead of his usual black as an excuse for breakfast, and went to the stables.

The wound beneath his right knee had healed on its own. So had the gash on his forehead, both unforgiving souvenirs from ‘Operation Locate and Retreat’. Sometimes Fushimi felt compelled to give credit for the way his body recovered from minor injuries. The only treatment he gave them was to hide them with clothing, and then they would quietly and unobtrusively fade into scarred oblivion: no infection, no tearing or post-clotting haemorrhage. Maybe the amount of caffeine in his system had passed a certain threshold and was now acting like some sort of preservative, like a pickling agent.

Getting out of bed in the middle of the night for a drive was a difficult task, and it was always particularly difficult when it fell on a Friday when Fushimi had horse-sitting shift. Now that he had received his licence and his shattered body clock refused to grant him sleep when he needed it, he was acquiring a new habit - going without sleep all together. So far he had managed two whole days without going to bed; all he did was have short, over-the-desk dozes maybe once or twice every night. He might do another one when this horse-sitting business was over.

Fushimi’s share of said business now included cleaning the three empty stalls next to the one occupied by the Strain horse. He saw the task underlined on the bulletin after someone reportedly spotted White Bean Tofu Stew wandering into one of the empty stalls and leaving bits of half-chewed hay in there. How the horse managed to cross the inter-stall walls without triggering the alarm remained a mystery to Fushimi, because he always checked the surveillance camera at the stables to make sure it was in good working order.

Fushimi dumped the empty cappuccino can in the bin. The drink cleared neither his mind nor his headache, but gave his body an excuse to plague him with a new pain, which started in his knees and soon spread to all his other joints. It was probably caused by the onset of fever. And since Fushimi neither cared nor had a normal person’s view on how illnesses should be treated, he ignored it. For a while he stood in front of the stables, willing away the pain. The act proved too demanding when it caused him to forget why he was at the stables. Then he spotted the surveillance camera blinking blue from under the roof. Right. He needed to check it, and after that the usual horse-sitting stuff. He drew the latch to let the horse out so he could grab the ladder at the very back of the shed. 

Camera checkup shouldn’t be part of the agreement, thought Fushimi hazily as he climbed the ladder. Then the reason behind camera checkup was lost on him again; he paused and looked down, trying to recall where he was. The Strain horse stood tethered to a tree and pawed the ground around the ladder with a foreleg, bored, or hungry, or both. Fushimi gave the surveillance camera a tap: sound as a bell. Maybe this was what he usually did, give the camera a tap to make sure it was functioning okay. He really couldn’t recall how the usual checkup went on his previous shifts. He began to climb down.

His fingers touched a part of the ladder that was covered in frost, and slipped. His other hand made an attempt to hold on, forgot it was holding a spanner, and dropped it. The spanner fell onto White Bean Tofu Stew’s withers, who snorted and bucked in surprise. His flank smashed into the ladder, which tilted and collapsed to the ground in a deafening clang, catapulting Fushimi into the stall. For a split second Fushimi’s fog-clogged mind became razor sharp, then his back hit something hard and cold, and he was sucked back into blissful nothingness.

**†**

Scepter 4’s private clinic was deserted save for the little cabin at the back of the main ward. Fushimi wouldn’t have recognised it, as he had never been here and had only just been deposited in this room in a drugged-up coma. The doctor, the one with sparse hair and scholarly-looking specs, threw Fushimi a glance of mixed pity and disbelief, before closing the cabin door and coming face to face - or rather, face to muzzle - with White Bean Tofu Stew. He drew his lab coat tighter over his pyjamas.

‘Back off, back off. You can’t go in there. You’re too big.’

The horse peered at the white-coated man, blinked, then extended his neck until his snout was poking at the cabin door, which swung open again. The doctor let out a huff of exasperation.

‘I know you dragged him here with your teeth. But he isn’t in any condition to keep grooming or feeding you until I have him sorted out. And you need some ointment on your withers too,’ the doctor patted White Bean Tofu Stew non too gently on the back, directly over the scratch caused by Fushimi’s dropped spanner. The horse pushed and snorted again; his whole head was now in the cabin.

‘Give him a beer,’ came Fushimi’s voice. The doctor opened the door; White Bean Tofu Stew’s upper body squeezed in at an alarming speed.

‘I thought you were comatose,’ the doctor said to Fushimi across White Bean Tofu’s sinewy neck.

Fushimi squinted at the slither of white lab coat behind the mass of chestnut-coloured horse muscle. ‘Get a beer. Clears him out quickest.’

‘You let a horse drink beer?’

‘Just do what I said.’

The doctor threw Fushimi another look he usually reserved for mentally disturbed patients, then retreated. A few minutes later, there was a popping sound out in the main ward. The smell of fermented barley drifted in. At this, White Bean Tofu Stew retreated. The doctor watched, gobsmacked, as the horse gulped and lapped at the beer he had poured into a basin. ‘Just get out of here once you're done.’ He told the horse, who ignored him. The doctor then went to close Fushimi’s door, only to find Fushimi sitting up in bed.

‘No no, not you. You’re not getting out of here!’ 

Fushimi treated the doctor to his most psychopathic glare. The moment he got to his feet, however, he swayed and sank back in bed with a gasp of pain. ‘What did you do to me?’

‘Why don’t you ask _you_ that question?’ the doctor leant against the cabin door. ‘You fell off a ladder and your horse dragged you here. It didn’t take me long to realise the fall wasn’t the only reason you look three quarters dead.’

From the bed, Fushimi scowled in what he hoped was a thoroughly menacing way, ‘That horse isn’t mine. Clear off.’

‘Yours or not, if it wasn’t for that horse you would have died for good. You are not going anywhere until your treatment is over. And no, glaring at me like a serial killer wouldn’t speed up the process. I have informed your superior of your condition. He will be here shortly.’

Fushimi sat up again, willing away the dizziness, ‘Get out of my way or I really _will_ kill you, Doctor.’

The doctor sighed. ‘You left me with no choice, then.’ He came forward and pushed a button on the side of the bed. The bed gave a lurch, unbalancing Fushimi and causing him to sink back into the mattress again. Before he could protest, the doctor grabbed his left wrist and locked it in a clasp built in at the side of the bed, then did the same to his right wrist and feet. Fushimi flinched as cold metal cut into his skin, ‘What’s this?’

‘To restrain people who suffer from mental disorder so they don’t accidentally murder themselves,’ said the doctor, ‘which is what you are going to do if I leave you alone.’ He took out a medical case. ‘I’m going to give you another dose of sleep drug because that seems the only way to keep you quiet.’

There was a nicker at the cabin door. In came White Bean Tofu Stew’s snout, tongue lolling out, expecting another beer or some proper breakfast. The doctor took the moment of distraction on Fushimi’s part and sank the needle into Fushimi’s arm. Fushimi yelped in pain. The doctor did two injections before unlocking the clasps restraining Fushimi’s wrists and feet. The moment they came free, Fushimi sat up, remained seated for a full second, then sank down into the mattress again. The sleep drug was travelling to his brain and overtaking it. He was out cold before his head hit the pillow.

‘It’s for your own good,’ said the doctor, before turning to the door and addressing the horse. ‘Now time to give you that ointment.’

 

**†**

 When Fushimi woke up, he could see spots of sun on the cabin ceiling.

‘… He was okay when he came here with the concussion, wasn’t he?’ the doctor was saying.

‘I believe he was,’ came Munakata’s voice.

‘Well, barely two months later and here he is, a complete wreck. I have never seen anyone so totally messed up from the inside out. His circadian rhythm is all wrong, not to mention many other areas. I have given him the required medication to clear out the excessive caffeine in his system. With that insane amount inside him and the shock of falling off a ladder, he could have gone into cardiac arrest and died on the spot. I wouldn’t feel terribly sorry if he did, considering everything he did the past two months was as good as suicidal.’

‘Such as?’

‘I have no idea what he did, but the signs are there. I’m afraid you have to ask him when he wakes up. Whatever he had been doing was slowly killing him, that’s for sure.’

‘He was a bit sleep-deprived,’ said Munakata. ‘Hence the caffeine. I wonder how you persuaded him to visit you.’

‘I didn’t. He came here readily passed out. The horse dragged him here in the middle of the night.’

‘The Strain horse?’ Munakata’s voice was sharper than usual.

‘Yes. I had to feed him because otherwise he wouldn’t leave me alone. Ms Awashima just came and took him away.’

Fushimi tuned out and started to plan his escape. There was a sensor-like something wrapped around his left forearm; he glared at it, trying to abuse his befuddled brain into analysing what it might be. Suddenly it began to beep, flashing blue as it did so. Fushimi’s heart leapt to his throat. Getting caught before he could think of a way to get out was probably the worst outcome of any escape plan. The sensor beeped three times, then vibrated a little. Fushimi felt something liquid and cold began to spread from his arm where it was gripped by the sensor. It was an automatic medication dispenser. The machine sensed something wrong about Fushimi and was now injecting a dose of whatever it thought Fushimi needed into Fushimi’s bloodstream.

Before Fushimi could figure out what it was, fatigue began to weigh down on him, and his brain was slowing down again. The medication, probably some sort of sedative, was draining him of what little strength he had, was forcing him to unwind and rest. He stared at the ceiling, unable to move a muscle, too exhausted to continue thinking, or even curl into a ball so he could at least feel some illusion of safety. Outside, the doctor was still deep in conversation with Munakata, their voices a muffled blur.

**†**

Munakata entered one of the two information rooms in the office building, and found an unlikely combination of people already in there: Awashima, Enomoto and Hidaka. They all raised their eyes at the sound of Munakata’s footsteps, recognised him, and reacted accordingly: Awashima clicking into a salute, Enomoto gasping, Hidaka’s jaw dropping.

‘We were - we’ve just been checking the alarm system, sir,’ Enomoto’s mental faculties snapped back to life.

‘The one in the dorm, sir,’ supplied Hidaka, scooping up his jaw from somewhere near his navel. ‘It didn’t go off when one of the lads - workmates - colleagues, I mean - sneaked into my room, sir.’

Awashima cast them a stern look, before turning to Munakata, ‘The Strain horse has returned to the stables, sir.’

‘Good,’ said Munakata, then turned to Enomoto, who blanched. ‘I could do with borrowing some computer skills. A favour, please?’

Enomoto gulped, ‘Anything, sir.’

‘Excellent,’ Munakata approached the desk Enomoto and Hidaka were at. ‘I would like you to bring up the video footage from the surveillance camera installed at the stables. Four to five o’clock this morning would be sufficient.’

‘May I enquire as to the reason?’ Awashima approached. With her and Munakata standing over them, Enomoto’s face turned a nastier shade of green, and Hidaka appeared to have shrunk at least a foot.

‘Mr Fushimi is injured during his morning shift,’ Munakata explained. ‘The doctor at the clinic informed me that the Strain horse dragged Mr Fushimi there, which means the Strain horse somehow managed to get out of the area covered by the surveillance camera without triggering a breakout alarm. I need to know why.’

‘Is it part of White Bean Tofu Stew’s power?’ asked Awashima.

‘Are we having alarm breakdown all over the premises?’ asked Enomoto.

‘Is Fushimi okay?’ asked Hidaka.

Munakata smiled evasively, ‘If you could please get on with the footage retrieval, Enomoto.’

‘What - oh, okay. Of course, sir.’

A weighty silence descended on the four of them as Enomoto started typing. As he eased into the job, Enomoto began to forget the presence of his superiors, and his habitual muttering returned.

‘This one’s all for logs, so it can’t be here. This’s all coded, must be config,’ he scrolled past folder after folder at an incredibly fast pace. ‘This is all debugging. All numbered and sorted. I wonder who maintains it. This here’s another backup folder, so no… aha!’ he sprung up with a flourish and almost knocked Hidaka off the chair. ‘Footage, it is. This morning’s, sir?’

‘Yes, please,’ said Munakata. ‘Four to five.’

Enomoto brought up a new window and dragged a file into it. The window filled the entire screen with a timeline ticking at the bottom. A picture appeared, then it began to move and zoom in on the stables. Enomoto and Hidaka leant closer, Munakata and Awashima shadowing them.

‘Oh dear,’ said Munakata.

‘Good God!’ said Awashima.

‘Oops,’ said Enomoto.

‘Bugger me,’ said Hidaka. 

**†**

Fushimi glanced down at his feet, which were dangling a less-than-safe distance from the ground. Above his head, his hands were in the final stage of freezing over from the cold. There was no way he could hold on any longer. He let go.

He fell to the ground in a heap and somehow avoided crashing his head. There was the sound of bones hitting stone - his back hitting the ground, to be precise - and the escape was over. He looked up at the window to the private clinic, blinked, then got to his feet. His body shook with a mixture of cold, pain and low-grade fever.

‘So this is how you choose to be discharged.’

Fushimi spun at the voice, lost balance, and collapsed again. Up above, the stars blinked mockingly at him from a navy blue sky. He sat up and watched Munakata approach him. He needed a moment before he could make another attempt at standing up.

‘You look like you needed to stay at the clinic a bit longer.’

‘No way,’ Fushimi said, before forcing himself to his feet. His head swam, and his vision darkened for a few disconcerting seconds before gradually coming back.

Munakata looked at him, amused. ‘If you are well enough to escape through the window, I see no reason for you to stay at the clinic and remain a guinea pig.’

‘Guinea pig?’

‘You were given quite a few injections when you were unconscious,’ said Munakata, apparently enjoying the look of alarm on Fushimi’s face. ‘“You were a sleep-deprived, highly caffeinated mess and could have died if you carried on like that” was the diagnosis. The doctor had to use sleep drugs to sedate you before he could begin your treatment.’

‘So why am I awake if I’m on sleep drugs?’

‘I told the doctor to stop giving you more,’ Munakata explained. ‘You would wake up once you have slept your fill, anyway. Do you remember what happened before you were sent to the clinic?’

Fushimi tried to think through his fever. ‘I was on horse-sitting duty at the stables,’ he said slowly.

‘Which ended with you colliding with the shed when things went wrong,’ Munakata took over. ‘Luckily for us, the incident helped to uncover one of the mysteries concerning the Strain horse’s power. Have you ever wondered why the horse is able to move from stall to stall without raising the breakout alarm?’

Fushimi had, but hadn’t got around to working it out before the state of his health landed him a stint in the clinic without his consent.

‘Come,’ Munakata gestured.

It wasn’t until Munakata pushed open the door to the Captain’s Office when Fushimi realised they weren’t going to the stables to see the horse. The room was warm and well-lit, but not stifling; Fushimi followed Munakata to the tatami mat, and sat down when asked to without demur. He was tired from walking, and from his fever, which had started in earnest the moment he came off the sleep drugs. If Munakata wanted to talk shop, Fushimi had to keep his strength and wits about him.

‘Would you like some tea?’ Munakata looked at him.

‘You’d give me some whether I would or wouldn’t,’ Fushimi said in his flattest voice. ‘Aren’t you going to discuss the Strain horse?’

‘All in due course,’ said Munakata, putting the teapot on to boil. ‘I obtained footage of the surveillance camera after the incident last week.’

‘Last week?’

‘You seem surprised that your stay in the clinic lasted a week.’

Fushimi had no idea he had been hospitalised that long. No one told him, and he had spent too much time being forced to catch up on sleep to realise. He watched Munakata set out teacups on the mat. He couldn’t stop Munakata from offering him tea, but could choose not to drink it.

‘What’s in the footage?’

‘Oh, just the horse rubbing his nose all over you before realising you had already passed out. Then he dragged you out of the stall and began making his way to the clinic. He used his power to do that, because the footage showed him turning white and sprouting wings.’ Munakata paused mid-narration to put the tray on the mat.

‘So?’

‘Then he disappeared.’

‘What?’

‘Drink your tea, Fushimi.’

Fushimi took the cup and pretended to take a sip. Munakata raised his eyebrows. Fushimi sighed and took a sip for real. It wasn’t as bad as the canned version he accidentally tried before. It was the same powdered green tea, but a lot milder, and had a minty, sweet aftertaste.

‘Yes, the horse disappeared,’ Munakata continued, ‘which means he turned from white to transparent. All that is shown in the footage is you being towed by some invisible force. I have to say it looked rather bizarre.’

‘So part of the horse’s power is to become invisible?’

Munakata raised his eyebrows again. Fushimi took another sip of his tea, and repeated the question.

‘Apparently yes,’ Munakata said. ‘The surveillance camera is supposed to send a signal to the alarm when the horse is caught wandering out of range. If the horse is invisible, the surveillance camera will assume it has returned to the stall. You may call it a design defect.’

Fushimi put down his emptied teacup. Munakata noticed, and smiled at him.

‘How was it?’

Fushimi frowned, ‘Did you add something that shouldn’t be in there?’

‘I put in two polo mints,’ Munakata smiled as though adding polo mints to green tea was the most natural thing in the world. ‘Tea is an acquired taste. The sweets are there to help ease you in.’

Fushimi decided the best reaction was to pretend Munakata didn’t say anything. ‘So are you going to redesign the surveillance system around the stables?’

‘Or I can find a solution to help the horse control his power,’ said Munakata, pouring more tea (apparently polo mint-free) into Fushimi’s cup. ‘If he turns transparent as often as he likes, it would be difficult to track him down. I already checked all the footage since the horse was taken into custody. He appears to have a tendency to turn transparent when he is bored.’

Munakata dipped a spoon into Fushimi’s tea. Before he did that, Fushimi caught sight of two white rings on the spoon - polo mints. He pretended not to notice. ‘How do you know the horse’s bored?’

‘Horses are herd animals. Their instinct is to seek the company of their herd mates, and when that is not possible, the company of other animals or human beings. In the Strain horse’s case, he only gets company during feeding time. When he turns transparent, he is often alone by himself, and usually at night.’

At Munakata’s eyebrow prompt, Fushimi took his second cup of tea and sipped. ‘You have to buy more horses to populate the empty stalls,’ he said to Munakata, but addressed his tea.

‘Which is the easiest and the more humane solution, and has been on my mind for some time,’ Munakata agreed. ‘An alternate solution is to contact Nanakamado for power-restraining equipment specially designed for a horse.’

Fushimi huffed, ‘I see. Which of these do you want me to do?’

‘I beg your pardon?’

Fushimi put down his tea. ‘Isn’t it what you called me here for, give me a new task?’

‘No. I invited you here for tea. Nothing else. And I want you on leave until after New Year.’

‘What? A whole month?’

‘Hospitalisation has confused you, Fushimi. Today is Boxing Day.’

Fushimi whipped out his PDA and checked the calendar. When he looked up, Munakata smiled at him. ‘You are not coming to work with a fever, Fushimi. At least wait till you can tell the date and the day of the week without having to consult an electrical device.’ 

**†**

Enomoto, Fuse, Goto, Hidaka and Kusuhara sat in a circle in Kusuhara’s room. At the centre of the circle lay a sabre. Goto’s, to be precise.

‘Remind me what we’re playing again?’ Hidaka asked.

‘Spin the Sabre,’ said Goto. ‘We take turns spinning my sabre, and the person who gets pointed at answers a question from the spinner or does something the spinner asks him to do.’

‘Is it some sort of drinking game?’ Kusuhara asked, eyeing the tray of mugs next to him with dismay. An aroma of spice, sugar and fruit rose from the mugs.

‘You’re not trying it,’ said Fuse, sounding bad-tempered for some mysterious reason.

‘Technically he can,’ said Enomoto. ‘It’s alcohol-free mulled wine.’

‘What’s the fun in having alcohol if it’s alcohol-free?’ Hidaka crossed his arms.

‘Mulled wine doesn’t come alcohol-free unless you deliberately brew off the alcohol,’ said Enomoto, ‘which is what Mr Kamo has done because apparently _someone_ has been badgering him non-stop.’

‘That _someone,_ ’ Fuse said, ‘has been badgering everyone for a fortnight because he wants everyone to get into the spirit of the season.’

‘With alcohol,’ Hidaka supplied.

‘With alcohol-free alcohol,’ Enomoto was beginning to sound irritated.

‘Can everyone just focus on the game instead?’ said Goto loudly.

‘So do we have the wine if we win the game?’ asked Kusuhara.

‘That’s not part of it,’ said Goto. ‘Mr Kamo made more than he needed. That’s why we got some. Now we start clockwise. Enomoto, you first.’

‘Why me?’

‘Because my sabre’s pointing at you.’

All eyes fell on Enomoto, who frowned before reaching out to give the sabre a tentative spin.

‘This’s better be good,’ said Hidaka, chin in hands. ‘So Eno gets to ask me a question when it stops?’

‘Only if it points at you.’

‘Which end?’

‘The end you use to skewer and roast mackerel with.’

‘I never skewer mackerel on my sabre!’ cried Hidaka, scandalised. ‘And I don’t eat roast mackerel. I prefer them pan-fried with plenty of pepper and a squeeze of lemon.’

Everyone ignored him as Goto’s sabre stopped, pointing at Kusuhara.

‘Right,’ Goto turned to Enomoto. ‘Ask Kusuhara a question.’

‘What sort of question?’

‘Use your imagination,’ Fuse wagged his eyebrows suggestively. ‘The more personal, the better.’

‘That’s the spirit,’ Goto commented with a straight face.

Enomoto looked a mixture of horrified and embarrassed. ‘Well, uh, so,’ he cleared his throat. ‘Have you got a girlfriend?’

‘No,’ said Kusuhara.

‘You could be a bit more descriptive than that,’ Fuse looked disappointed.

‘He’s lying,’ said Hidaka. ‘The other day I came to his room, I walked in on him writing a letter. It had to be to his girlfriend at home.’

‘I wasn’t - ’

‘Well, you get a fine if you answer the question untruthfully,’ said Goto. ‘In the end, the person who gets the most fine has to act servant to the rest of us till the other side of the new year.’

Kusuhara looked alarmed, ’I wasn’t lying! I was writing to my old boss. I do sometimes.’

‘Your old boss is your girlfriend?’

‘No! It’s my boss from the riot squad. I reckon he’d like to know how I’m doing at Scepter 4. And it’s Christmas. You get in touch with people at Christmas.’

‘Well, I guess that’s it, then,’ Enomoto shrugged. ‘My round’s over. Who’s next?’

‘Me,’ Fuse took the sabre. ‘I want this over quick so we can move on to something else. This game isn’t exactly my idea of fun. And what if I ended up pointing at myself?’

‘That’s the best bit,’ said Goto. ‘You give yourself a fine.’

‘Huh, how entertaining.’

The sabre stopped, pointing at Kusuhara yet again. Kusuhara’s eyes grew to the size of saucers. Hidaka sniggered, ‘The fate’s against you, Chosen One.’

Fuse grinned, ’Goto says I can ask you to do something, or ask you a question. I’ll go easy on you, Kusuhara. You get to choose what I do to you. Task or question. Come on.’

‘Er, well, question then, I guess.’

‘Question it is,’ Fuse’s grin widened. ‘Do you watch porn?’

Kusuhara’s face turned the colour of mulled wine. Hidaka began to laugh, ‘Now that makes me wonder what he’d ask you to do if you chose the other option.’

Kusuhara threw an imploring glance at Goto, who was quick to smother his hope. ‘You can’t pass. You have to answer it. Do you or do you not watch porn?’ By this point, Hidaka had laughed himself into a hiccoughing fit. He grabbed a mug of mulled wine and took a swig. ‘Mmm! This stuff’s really good. Have a go before it turns cold, lads.’

They each grabbed a mug, except for Kusuhara, who sat tense and rigid, his eyes moving from one face to the next, as if searching desperately for a sign that the game was to stop now that they all started to sample the wine.

‘Answer before it becomes tomorrow’s headline,’ said Goto, draining his mug. ‘At least you know what sort of questions people ask you when it’s your chance to do the spinning.’

‘All right,’ Kusuhara fixed his eyes on his mug. ‘I don’t really watch porn unless I - ’

‘That’s a - hic - yes,’ Hidaka interrupted him. ‘Don’t forget what - hic - you told me the other day. I - hic - asked you what category you like - hic - to - ’ 

‘So whose turn is it now?’ Kusuhara spoke loudly over Hidaka with as much dignity as his blush would warrant. He got a thump on the head and wine spilled down the front of his jumper.

It was Goto’s turn. This time, the sabre pointed at Hidaka, who said, ‘You know, us being roommates means you can continue with what was left behind from the last round.’

The others barely got a chance to work out what Hidaka meant when Goto replied, ‘On the agenda, then. What sort of porn do you like?’

Enomoto took a hasty sip of his wine, while Kusuhara choked on his. Fuse smirked. Hidaka gave himself a refill, before straightening up with the air of someone announcing an important business deal, ‘Well, I like magazines best, ‘cos you can take them to bed with a torch under the covers. I like videos too, but my laptop gets hot too quickly.’

‘Highly understandable,’ said Fuse mid-smirking.

‘I’m not asking about the medium,’ said Goto. ‘Try going for content. What’s your cuppa tea in terms of content?’

‘Sounds like that question he asked you about “categories”,’ Fuse addressed Kusuhara, who spluttered. 

‘I like it action-packed,’ Hidaka began with the same enthusiasm of discussing food. ‘You know, with lots of movements and stuff, but not too dramatic like some of those vintage collection, you know, with confetti-like editing and all the good stuff hushed up, they’re like some prudish sex-ed advert for tween girls. That’s the videos. With magazines I like pictures, not words. I’ve seen a copy or two that’s got those stories about people going at it, starting with a chat over a plate of cakes in a cafe. I’m not into that sort of thing. A picture tells a story better than a story tells a story. And now it’s my turn. We should keep this topic alive and going.’

‘So says the person who can’t remember what the game’s about,’ Goto rolled his eyes.

Hidaka’s spin landed on Enomoto, who put down his mug with the face of a martyr. ‘Here goes, then.’

‘Oooh, sneaky Eno it is,’ Hidaka adopted a theatrical voice. ‘What do you do after you’ve watched porn?’

Kusuhara coughed into his mug. Enomoto thumped him on the back, his eyes on Hidaka. ‘Well, it depends on where I am and what time it is.’

‘Give us a scenario,’ Goto said.

‘An action-packed one,’ Fuse supplied.

Enomoto refilled his mug. ‘Well, suppose it’s the middle of the day and I’m having my day off - ’

‘Am I or am I not in the room?’ Fuse cut in.

‘I haven’t said where I am,’ Enomoto retorted with a sharpness that wasn’t like him. ‘And I’m not _that_ kinky, thank you very much. So basically, it’s the middle of the day and I’m enjoying my day off. I just got the videos from the shop and I’m in this big room with mounted telly and stereo. Where else to check out the videos? And they are quite nice, better than your usual downloaded stuff that come with a bunch of viruses. Do you guys remember that time when Hidaka’s laptop got infested with some nasty bug because he downloaded an amateur clip from that - ‘

‘Er, excuse me, but do you guys want more mulled wine?’

Enomoto stopped talking. Kamo was standing at the door, holding a large carafe. There was a brief but tense silence as all eyes fell on him and grew to twice their normal sizes.

‘Oh! Yes please. Thanks,’ Enomoto sprang up before the others rallied. ‘We are having a tea party!’

‘You should join us,’ said Hidaka, scrambling to his feet. Enomoto threw him a look that sent Hidaka smirking again. They all knew there were things they weren’t supposed to talk about in front of the oldest Swords member. 

‘Can you stay, Mr Kamo?’ Kusuhara spoke, sounding more desperate than inviting. Kamo glanced at him and frowned in apparent bewilderment, ‘I can’t, sorry. I just came to distribute the extra wine before _someone_ steals it all,’ he took a moment to look at each of them. ‘So you are all here? I didn’t hear a sound downstairs.’

‘Mr Akiyama should be in his room,’ said Hidaka. ‘And Fushimi.’

‘I heard he’s off work again,’ said Enomoto. ‘Health issues.’

‘No one wants to know where you “heard” things,’ said Fuse with a scowl.

The scowl was lost on Kamo, who was looking at Hidaka. ‘I did check Akiyama’s room. He and Benzai prefer rice wine.’

‘Well, check Fushimi. He might be game.’

Kamo shrugged, ‘And maybe some of my staff if I can get around to it. Don’t stay up too late, you lot.’

‘Crikey, he sounds like my dad,’ Goto went to bolt the door after Kamo had walked safely out of earshot.

‘He is a dad,’ Fuse put in. ‘Although I have to say I was a wee bit alarmed by your newly discovered dad fetish.’

The others groaned at the remark. ‘Are you guys still keen on listening to my fictional scenario?’ Enomoto asked. ‘Because I’m not into making things up any more.’

‘You made it up? You are supposed to tell a real story!’ Hidaka sounded devastated.

‘A real story of what I’d do after I watched porn? Fine. Tell me what you’d do if it was you.’

‘I’d go find somewhere to get off. Or get someone for a quickie if I’m in luck.’

‘Same here.’

‘So you both have a girlfriend?’ Kusuhara piped up.

‘I don’t,’ said Hidaka. ‘And neither does Eno as far as I’m aware. Eno’s too picky so there’s hardly any girl he wants a quickie with unless he really fancies her. And I’m too generous so girls all run away ‘cos I fancy all of them. Last time I visited my parents - my brothers are still living at home, you know - there was this girl visiting my youngest brother. She says she isn’t his girlfriend but I caught her throwing lewd looks at him across the dinner table. And later that night I walked in on the two of them in my other brother’s room - ’

‘Oh my word! A threesome?’

Hidaka drained his second serve of wine. ‘In your dreams. Now I just thought of something else to do. We can improve on this game to make it more fun.’

The others looked at him intently, except for Kusuhara, who was gulping down large mouthfuls of wine so his face was hidden behind the mug.

‘So basically, when the sabre points at someone - say Eno - next time, the spinner gets to give Enomoto a nickname that’s only ever used by us. It’s got to be something that rhymes or alliterates with Eno’s name. Like “Eno the Elephant” or something.’

‘I’m not an elephant!’

‘Or “Eno the Hippo”. Or - ouch!’ Hidaka sprang up and lunged at Kusuhara’s bed, barely avoiding Enomoto’s second punch.

‘No way. Hidaka should be the hippo. “Hidaka the Hippo” has a certain ring to it,’ Fuse said, intrigued. ‘And we could each have an animal nickname like that. Mine starts with F … “Fuse the Falcon”!’ he whooped. ‘I’m a bird of prey! And you, Goto, you are a G, which would be a …’

‘Gorilla?’ Goto’s voice was very dry. He seemed to be regretting the idea of playing Spin the Sabre with his squad mates.

‘Yes! Goto the Gorilla! Flabby hairy long-armed squishy boy!’

Goto buried his face in his hands. Behind him, Enomoto was still making a concerted effort at murdering Hidaka, who cowered behind Kusuhara’s bed. Out of the five, Fuse was the only one who was into the idea of creating animal nicknames. His eyes fell on Kusuhara, who was in the middle of slinking behind the door to make himself excusable.

‘You!’ Fuse shouted, and Kusuhara deflated. ‘You’d be an animal that starts with K … I know! Kangaroo! You are always a bit jumpy at training.’ 

‘I’m not jumpy - ’ Kusuhara began, but was cut off as Goto uncovered his face and let out a shriek of delight that wasn't like him at all. He appeared to have resigned to the idea of the naming game and was now determined to outshine Fuse.

‘We should give all of them an animal name,’ he said, enumerating ‘all of them’ with his fingers. ‘Start with Mr Akiyama. What kind of animal starts with the letter A, apart from ‘armadillo’ and ‘antelope’?’

‘Anteater?’ Hidaka put in tentatively, ‘although I hate to imagine Mr Akiyama with a long snout. I’ll second armadillo. It’s got that hardworking, serious face I usually associate with Mr Akiyama.’

In the end, no one on speaking terms with Swords Four escaped the ordeal of being associated with an animal equivalent. Hidaka wrote down everyone’s name and their animal familiar on a sheet of paper: Akiyama the Armadillo, Benzai the Boar, Kamo the Camel, Domyoji the Dung-Beetle, Enomoto the Elephant, Fuse the Falcon, Goto the Gorilla, Hidaka the Hippo, and finally Kusuhara the Kangaroo. When the list was finished, everyone apart from Enomoto put their heads together to discuss where the list should be kept, while Enomoto buried his face under Kusuhara’s pillow and prayed with all his heart that he wouldn’t be found out as the one who - very reluctantly - suggested that dung beetle, being of a scurry nature, suits his boss better than dolphin, or dog, or dragon.

 

**†**

Shortly after midnight, Fushimi left the Captain’s office and returned to his room, having had four serves of polo mints-sweetened tea. His fever had gone down a bit, which left him as tired as before if a little less irritable. When he switched on the lights in his room, he saw a mug on his table and a note beneath, which read:

 

_Hi,_

_I brewed the mulled wine myself. It’s alcohol-free._

_Happy Belated Christmas!_

 

Fushimi didn’t recognise the handwriting. It was probably from one of the kitchen staff. Tentatively, Fushimi touched the mug; it was still warm, and the fruity, spicy scent wafting out of it was oddly comforting. He went to bed without sampling it. When he woke up the next morning, the world he opened his eyes to was filled with the scent of mulled wine, the image of Christmas market, and a faint, crisp touch of midwinter as fluff of snow covered the awning of his room in a soft, spotless blanket.

 

 


	20. New Year Surprises

_  
_

_‘You should never interrupt your enemy when he is making a mistake.’  
_

_(Napoleon Bonaparte)_

 

 The New Year holidays came and went in a swirl of emergency dispatches. On the last day of December, the clock had barely struck midnight when the sirens in Scepter 4’s office building sounded and the telephone lines became jammed with incoming calls from a local fire brigade. People there were asking for help because a fire on the outskirts of Tokyo had been going on for some time but for some bizarre reason couldn’t be put out. Swords Four were sent to the site, believing the fire to be caused by Strain gangsters, and were instead dragged into helping to relocate the fire truck to make room for more of them.

According to Enomoto, who handed in a report slightly singed around the edges, it wasn’t a Strain incident at all. Half the staff at the fire brigade were on leave for the new year, and the other half that called Scepter 4 for assistance did so because they were mostly new employees and prone to panic attacks when things didn’t go as expected e.g.: fire took longer to put out. Enomoto then remarked that as head and ‘director’ of Scepter 4, Munakata had the right to decline requests if he deemed them Strain-irrelevant. The remark was made to the rest of Swords Four and over midmorning coffee following the incident, because Enomoto didn’t dare tell Munakata face to face.

As a reward for handling the report, Enomoto was first in line to get his coffee. The rest of Swords Four barely had time to slot their coins into the coffee machine when the sirens began to screech yet again. This time, they went with Swords One to a construction site. A crane had toppled over and killed its operator, and the site manager called Scepter 4 believing them to be the police. It turned out to be yet another ordinary incident, but Swords One had to go to the Metropolitan Police and then to the engineering company that provided the crane so that the case could be handed over properly. Meanwhile, Swords Four was given the daunting task of breaking the news of the operator’s death to his family.

When the construction case was over (or at least over for Scepter 4), Swords One and Four returned to headquarters to find Swords Two and Three away on assignment. Something else had happened, somewhere out of town. Swords Two didn’t return until the next day, and by the time Swords Three returned, the holiday was well over. They had been called out of Tokyo to handle yet another Strain-irrelevant case, this time a brawl-turned-riot-turned-stampede at an auction.

In light of the incidents, Akiyama camped out in the information room to work on the reports. At first, Benzai volunteered to help him, but three days away on assignment meant his squad training was put on hold, so after failing to find a stand-in, he left his share of the paperwork to Akiyama and went back to his duties.

Since Akiyama’s recovery, he had been catching up on a lot of work he missed out while his hand was in a bandage, and most of the work involved dealing with the documents his subordinates filed on the computer. As a result, he was spending a lot more time than other Swords members in the company of the intelligence division. His bulletin board had been removed: an intelligence division member had finally caved in and asked him to remove it, so he had to find an alternative that didn’t bother other people: he got a portable whiteboard and used it on his own desk.

One early morning, Akiyama woke up from a short doze hunched over his whiteboard. He was now cushioned by documents. They kept coming in as various people returned from investigating the New Year cases, so he had to incorporate them into the final version of his report. It was mostly done. All that was left was formatting and proofreading.

The computer room was deserted. Most Swords members would be spending the first day after the holidays training, so they wouldn’t come to the computer room. Akiyama went to the information room next door to get a coffee, and found Fushimi there, waiting for his. At the sound of Akiyama’s footsteps, Fushimi started. Akiyama noticed and apologised, to which Fushimi said nothing, but moved to sit on the nearby table so Akiyama could order his coffee.

As they waited, it occurred to Akiyama that he hadn’t seen Fushimi since the start of the Mogura case in November. Fushimi looked unwell, more so than Akiyama remembered. Toward the end of last year, Akiyama had heard rumours among Swords members that Munakata was spending a lot of time off work with Fushimi, and that the contact was slowly killing him. Akiyama never believed it, although seeing Fushimi like this, he was beginning to understand why the rumours had been the way they were.

‘Are you back to work now?’ Akiyama asked, noticing Fushimi’s knitted brow at the question. It didn’t seem to indicate annoyance.

‘I work whenever and wherever I need to,’ Fushimi said. ‘I’m just here to get a drink.’ He gave Akiyama a hard, appraising look. ‘Have you been working non-stop?’

‘Well, I have to. There were these ordinary cases that were somehow passed over to us.’

The coffee machine beeped. Fushimi’s drink was ready, but he didn’t seem to notice. ‘What cases?’

‘You haven’t heard? Well, I suppose you don’t need to, they were just ordinary dispatches that don’t need any serious investigation anyway,’ Akiyama gave Fushimi his drink before inserting his empty cup. ‘Basically, we’ve become a public services agency over the new year. So far we’ve been in touch with a fire brigade, a construction company, two local councils, three law firms and two police stations.’

‘That’s a lot to process on top of the Strain cases,’ Fushimi commented to his cup. He held it with both hands, looking cold.

‘It is. Hence the paperwork. Although I’m kind of wondering why they contacted us in the first place. It’s like people out there are expecting us to be some sort of solve-it-all agency. Had a construction accident? Call Scepter 4. The house is on fire? Call Scepter 4. It’s a bit strange, to say the least.’

‘Have you checked the public directory?’

‘Public directory?’

‘Where people look up numbers when they need service. People dial the first number they can find, and it could be any number.’

Akiyama was silent long enough to contemplate this. ‘You think they are dialling us because our number popped up in the search?’

‘It’s a possibility.’ Fushimi took a sip of his drink, pulled a face, and put the cup down, looking revolted.

‘What’s the matter?’

‘Decaf,’ Fushimi glanced up at Akiyama. ‘Tastes disgusting.’

Akiyama couldn’t decide which topic was worthier of investigation: public directory, or Fushimi’s mysterious switch to decaf coffee. The former concerned work, so he picked up where he left it and went on, ‘None of the Swords members thought of that,’ he said as Fushimi looked at him. ‘We did wonder if those public services shut down for the holidays. They didn’t. Who manages the directory?’

Fushimi shrugged, looking tired. ‘You don’t need to know. You just have to hack into it to see if someone’s been there before you and done something they shouldn’t.’

Akiyama fell silent. Hacking into a directory or some other sort of database was not his area. Even if it was, he felt there ought to be a slightly more ethical way of solving the problem, such as negotiating.

The coffee machine beeped again. Akiyama got his espresso out and began tipping sachet after sachet of sugar over the steaming surface.

‘Do you want this?’ Fushimi asked, indicating his decaf. He looked ready to throw up if he gave it another go.

‘No thanks. You don’t have to force it down if you don’t like it,’ Akiyama sat next to Fushimi, stirring his coffee. ‘Why are you on decaf?’

‘Caffeine doesn’t agree with me,’ Fushimi said with self-loathing. ‘I had too much of it a while ago and now I’m told to cut it down.’ He screwed the lid over the cup and got to his feet.

‘Have you got a different way of cracking the public directory problem apart from hacking?’ Akiyama asked.

Fushimi threw him a look more tired than irritated. ‘No. Ask someone else if you want it all prim and proper.’

**†**

 Akiyama continued to work on the reports. By the time he handed the final version to the Records Office, the sun was setting. Throughout the day, a few people from the intelligence division came to retrieve some odd pieces of computer hardware, saw Akiyama, greeted him by means of a nod, and then left. Akiyama didn’t see Fushimi since their coffee encounter, but what Fushimi said about public directory had been preying on his mind.

People didn’t need to consult the public directory if they needed emergency services. Those numbers had been drilled into almost everyone since primary school, so dialling them would be like second nature. But apparently Fushimi didn’t think like that. To Akiyama, Fushimi’s theory suggested people needed to look up every number, emergency service or not, in the public directory, and for some mysterious reason, Scepter 4’s number was the first one to pop up and that was why people kept contacting them for all sorts of odd jobs.

Akiyama went to the information room and got a can of tea. Fushimi wasn’t there. Akiyama sat down in front of a computer and brought up the public directory webpage. Of all the services he had been in contact with, fire emergency had the most well-known number. Akiyama felt slightly stupid for even thinking about looking up this number when it was practically screaming digit after digit at the back of his mind.

His jaw dropped at the window that popped up. He was looking at Scepter 4’s number, masquerading as the fire service number he had memorised since primary school. He tried a different approach and looked up the two police stations in the country where he investigated the stampede accident. Again, the number that followed the name and address of these stations was Scepter 4’s.

Akiyama sat back in his chair, staring at the screen. It was now filled with pop-up windows, all from different lookups and all displaying Scepter 4’s number. It was plain weird. Still, it didn’t explain why people would resort to looking up the numbers when they ought to memorise them or at least store them in their PDAs. Most PDA models were now sold with the public services contact list pre-installed, which meant people hardy needed to do an online search. Akiyama took his PDA and decided to check if his contact list was functioning as expected. His finger barely brushed against the screen when a call came through and caused the device to vibrate. It was from Fushimi.

‘Akiyama speaking.’

‘Why are you using the public directory from the information room?’

Fushimi’s forthrightness stumped Akiyama for a moment. ‘How did you know?’

‘I’m in their database as a temporary admin. I can track you right down to the hard drive ID of the computer you are using.’

Akiyama’s brain was having a hard time decoding what Fushimi’s first sentence meant. ‘What do you mean you are in their - are you hacking the public directory?’

‘Not physically,’ Fushimi replied, missing Akiyama’s point. ‘I need to know what’s happening, so I need to clear the search log. But I can’t block you, because I reserved user privilege for all searches coming from Scepter 4’s network.’

Akiyama didn’t work among intelligence members for so long without overhearing (and absorbing) some of their jargons. ‘I need to know what’s happening too,’ he said. ‘And adding to the search log is the only way I can do that.’

Fushimi clicked his tongue. ‘Come to my room then.’

‘Sorry?’

‘I said, come to my room if you have to know what’s going on. Kill your search process before you leave.’

‘Kill?’

‘Never mind. Just shut down the computer you’re using. Please.’

**†**

 Akiyama knocked on Fushimi’s door, heard an absent-minded ‘come in’, and obeyed. The room was dark and freezing, and the only light seemed to come from Fushimi’s laptop screen. Fushimi was perched on the lower bunk, his laptop on the chair, which he had pulled close to the bed as a makeshift desk. The layout of the room itself was pretty much identical to Akiyama’s, so Akiyama stretched out a hand and switched the light on. At this, Fushimi flinched, then looked up at Akiyama.

‘Turn it off.’

It suddenly dawned on Akiyama why Fushimi had been looking sickly. A pitch black and freezing cold room was certainly a giant contributor. But he wasn’t here to lecture Fushimi on things like that. At Fushimi’s request, he switched the light off, and came to the bed.

‘So you did hack into the public directory.’

‘I told you to ask someone else if you want it done all prim and proper.’

‘I’m not whinging,’ Akiyama gave a small smile, not sure whether Fushimi saw it in the dark. ‘I did a few lookups and found our number has replaced all those public service numbers, but that’s just on the internet.’

‘It’s the same on phonebooks.’

‘I don’t understand. Take the fire emergency for instance. Everyone should have the number off pat. Why would they look it up?’

Fushimi looked at Akiyama as though he was examining a fossil. ‘If you want to dial fire emergency, do you really bring up the keypad on your phone and type the number yourself? Normal people would’ve tapped the entry in their contact list and the PDA would initiate the call for them. They wouldn’t even bother giving the number a read.’

Akiyama examined the contact list on his PDA. Every entry was given an icon or a name, and unless he tapped it to bring up the editor window, none of the entries actually showed the number. PDAs were designed for maximum convenience, meaning people would ring someone simply by tapping their icon. If the contact number was changed by some unknown force, no one would find out. He turned to look at Fushimi, who was still regarding him with a slightly derisive glint in his eyes, ready to question him whether he was really from the 21st century.

‘I never thought of that,’ Akiyama said, half to himself and half to Fushimi. ‘I mean, I’ve been so used to ringing people by tapping their icon, I never thought it had become a sort of muscle memory when my brain still assumes otherwise.’

The mockery in Fushimi’s eyes was gone. ‘The public directory has been tampered with,’ he said. ‘And because PDAs automatically import part of their built-in contact list from the public directory, people out there have been contacting Scepter 4 for all kinds of service without meaning to.’

‘Has it spread to other areas? If this went on, our number would end up masquerading as every number out there and our transmission would explode.’

Fushimi spent some seconds studying his laptop screen. ’It might. At this stage it’s just the public directory, and the network is already slowing down having to re-route the volume of calls.’

‘Can you find out who’s behind it?’

Again Fushimi stopped what he was doing to look at Akiyama. It was the same hard, appraising look, as if he was assessing how much to tell, or whether he ought to tell at all.

‘No,’ he said at last, ‘but I’m wondering if some of these cases are linked.’

Akiyama squinted at the laptop screen. The brightness was hurting his eyes. ‘So you are trying to establish a connection by hacking into the public directory pretending to be admin? That way you can access the admin activity log.’

A flicker of surprise stole across Fushimi’s features. ‘You need to go back to your own div,’ he said evenly.

Akiyama decided not to comment on that. ‘There might be a pattern somewhere. If someone’s been targeting us, they might as well try as many ways to break into our network as they can.’

Fushimi was silent for a long time as he stared at the screen. Akiyama could see the reflection of the numbers dancing across his face.

‘First case was lodged shortly after I came here,’ said Fushimi. ‘The intelligence division found some loopholes in the intranet, and later some unknown activities. It turned out to be a security defect from Orange, because they used to be the network provider. I got their non-commercial licence so the upgrade for Scepter 4’s network means it’s now defect-free, or as defect-free as I can make it without having to cope with Orange’s issues. But eventually it got worse, someone was killed, and I had to help fix their issues, which is before I went to their data centre,’ Fushimi glanced at Akiyama, who still remembered the adventure vividly. ‘And later I got a follow-up email from an unknown source, pretending to be from the Metropolitan Police.’

‘Those are the cases that predate this one?’

‘Sort of. My impression is that this someone is now finding it increasingly hard to attack Scepter 4’s network, so they’re now doing it in this roundabout way. If they could re-route a certain number of phone calls to Scepter 4, it could cause Scepter 4’s network to crash. It’s a lot easier and less detectable than directly attacking the network.’ And a strange, haunted look came to his eyes.

Akiyama was beginning to comprehend the sort of issues that beset the intelligence division. The nature of their work was so different from what Akiyama was used to at Swords. He was also slightly surprised that Fushimi would tell him this much. He had always been under the impression that Fushimi would never divulge the details of things that didn’t concern the listener: with the Orange infiltration, he and Benzai only got to know the true motive behind the mission until they came back.

‘What are you planning to do now?’ he asked. He did want to know, but was also prepared to be turned away. It was none of his business, after all.

To his surprise, Fushimi snorted. ‘I can’t do anything about it,’ the same self-loathing permeated his voice again. ‘Go ask Captain Munakata if he’s enjoying all those extra cases and mayhem. I bet he is, in which case it’d be a shame if I fixed it.’

‘Well, now that you’ve told me what you found out, I can relay the message to the Captain.’

‘Whatever you like.’

Although Fushimi didn’t say it, something about his air suggested their conversation was no longer welcome. Akiyama rose to leave, cautiously picking his way around the desk so he wouldn’t trip over it.

‘Akiyama.’

‘Yes?’

‘Turn on the light if you are leaving.’

‘Okay.’

Akiyama closed Fushimi’s door, and found Enomoto at the staircase, gaping at him.

‘What’s the matter?’

‘You are - you were in Fushimi’s room,’ Enomoto observed, sounding half awed, half petrified.

‘We were discussing the cause of those extra incidents we’ve been dealing with since new year,’ said Akiyama. ‘I think Fushimi’s on his way to cracking it.’

‘That’s not the point,’ Enomoto lowered his voice, his eyes flickering between Akiyama’s face and Fushimi’s door. ‘I just thought - well, you look okay and intact and, um, alive, so I’m assuming you are fine.’

‘Why would I not be?’

They began making their way down the corridor. Enomoto visibly struggled to get the message across, ’I just - well, not me really, all of us. We find Fushimi a bit scary. None of us has been to his room. You’re the first ever.’

‘Oh, it’s nothing. His room is the same as everyone else’s. And he’s not scary,’ said Akiyama, not understanding why Enomoto cringed at his words. ‘Fushimi is just like everyone else when you talk to him. There are things his div does that have helped us a lot, anyway. Have you heard of any new dispatches?’

‘Not since that stampede case,’ said Enomoto, looking reluctant that Akiyama was dropping the subject of Fushimi. ‘So you found out why we’ve been forced to deal with Strain-irrelevant cases?’

‘Yes, although I’m not sure if it’s a good idea to tell everyone just yet. I guess we just have to answer the dispatches when they come. And we would be in luck if they became less frequent.’

Later, unbeknownst to Akiyama, his reputation among some of the Swords members became close to legendary because of his venture into Fushimi’s room and, more importantly, his declaration that Fushimi was ‘just like everyone else’.

**†**

 Contrary to what Akiyama believed, Strain-irrelevant dispatches did not become less frequent. January passed with an increasing number of incidents taking place all over Greater Tokyo. Over the course of a few weeks, Scepter 4 became the go-to place for all sorts of services: emergency, transport, finance, entertainment, construction and - accompanying all these - lawsuits. To some citizens, Scepter 4’s reputation preceded it as either ‘a dodgy secret police organisation’ or ‘a bunch of monster coppers’, so the moment they realised their calls were routed to Scepter 4, they became either furious or fearful, and resorted to leaving less-than-complimentary messages to Scepter 4’s landline.

After being sent to settle a bankruptcy, three mortgage disputes and nine car accidents, Akiyama was reaching his limit. He barely had time to check if the number of calls routed to Scepter 4’s landline had been increasing, although by the looks of things, it had, and at an rate that was almost exponential. A telltale sign was that on the morning he returned from a law firm, three weeks after his talk with Fushimi, he picked up a phone call from a nearby school asking him to book a stadium for two end-of-school concerts.

‘I’m very sorry, madam,’ he shouted to the lady who was having trouble hearing him because of children screaming at her end. ‘We do not provide stadium-booking or concert arrangement. This is the fourth annex of the Tokyo Legal Affairs - ’

‘Are you serious? It’s Tokyo Baseball Association we are calling! We are a big school and to accommodate everyone we need a large stadium and - WILL YOU BE QUIET!’

The sound of children’s screaming rose, mingled with crying. Akiyama switched to speaker mode and put the receiver down so he could collapse into the chair nearby and make himself scarce as the pandemonium unfolded on the other end of the phone.

‘ARE YOU STILL THERE, SIR?’

‘Yes,’ Akiyama said, trying not to sound too wimpy, which, sadly, was how he truly felt.

‘Then kindly tell me who I am calling and who I am _supposed_ to be calling?’

Akiyama navigated around the question, ‘It doesn’t matter. I will forward your call to the baseball association. I will be right back with you.’

‘What? Wait! - Don’t you dare put me on hold like my mobile carrier - ’

Akiyama brought up the public directory on his PDA and looked up Tokyo Baseball Association. The number returned was Scepter 4’s, which wasn’t exactly unexpected. He picked up the phone.

‘ - is supposed to behave himself!’ the lady appeared to be chastising one of the children.

‘I’m sorry, madam,’ Akiyama cut in. ‘Due to technical difficulties we are currently unable to redirect you to - ’

‘Fine! I know you’d be a hopeless case! And don’t bother calling me back because all you public servants do is spend our taxes on who knows what and never do what you’re supposed to do!’

The sound of phone slamming on the other end was like a minor explosion. Akiyama sat stunned for a moment, then grabbed his PDA and dialled the one and only number he hoped hadn’t been tampered with.

‘Fushimi speaking.’

‘Please fix it,’ Akiyama said, dispensing with pleasantries. ‘I know you didn’t want to last time, but things are getting out of control.’

There was a brief silence. ‘I never said I didn’t want to fix it.’

Akiyama was relieved Fushimi cottoned on so fast, ‘Sorry, bad wording. But the thing is you must know what’s been going on at Swords these days. No one’s got around to what we should be doing. We are all running around town trying to be in the sort of profession we aren’t really fit for. And I just checked the public directory. A lot more numbers have been replaced with ours now. Perhaps being the hacker admin you’ve already detected who’s behind it?’

Fushimi sighed, ‘I have. I’m just not doing anything about it.’

‘Why not? At least tell me who’s behind it, please. Or tell me how to fix it and I’ll do it.’

‘It will be over soon. Mogura is leaving for Nanakamado at the end of this month.’

Akiyama’s brain ground to a halt at these two less-than-sequential sentences. What does it mean, it will be over soon? And what’s it got to do with Mogura?

‘Are you saying - ’

Fushimi sighed again, ‘Captain Munakata’s orders. Do nothing. Let it happen, and let the Swords cope with it because it proves to be an excellent training opportunity. It will be over once Mogura is gone.’

‘Is Mogura behind it?’

‘I’m not actually supposed to tell you,’ Fushimi sounded exhausted. ‘Go ask the Captain if you want to know more.’

And just as Akiyama was about to do that, the siren sounded. Apart from him, there were two Swords Three members currently at headquarters. The rest were all out. He sighed and gestured to the two men, and together they left, on their way to another scene of chaos.

Five days later, Mogura was loaded onto Scepter 4’s arrest truck and driven to the Strain research centre at Nanakamado. Akiyama and Benzai took turns driving, because after almost a whole month of constant emergency dispatches, neither had enough mental focus to sustain more than ten minutes of driving without pranging someone’s car or being pranged. Akiyama had half wondered whether he might be able to coax some intel out of Mogura before handing him over to the Gold Clan, but desisted when the wondering caused him to veer off course and almost rear-end a bus. After this, Benzai took over, although his sense of coordination was equally impaired, having survived half a month on no more than three hours of sleep every night.

‘Let’s not talk until we’re there,’ Benzai commented, accidentally sounding the horn with his elbow when he didn’t mean to.

It took them nearly two hours to get to Nanakamado because they constantly needed to switch over, or forgot which direction to take. By the time they arrived, snow was falling, which melted and turned into greyish sludge as they trod on it. At the entrance to the research centre, two men in lab coats were waiting. When Mogura was brought forward, they put on him another pair of cuffs over the one he was already wearing. The moment the new cuff touched Mogura’s wrists, it glowed white-gold, scorching Mogura’s skin. Mogura yelped.

‘Thank you for sending the subject here,’ said one of the lab coats to Akiyama, who couldn’t help but notice the cold, detached way Mogura was referred to.

‘It’s alright. I had the feeling housing him at Scepter 4 increased our workload in mysterious ways,’ Akiyama cast a sidelong glance in Mogura’s direction. He hadn’t forgotten the way Fushimi mentioned Mogura when asked to explain who was behind all the mayhem since the new year.

‘I can see you Blue Coppers aren’t quite cutting the mustard when it comes to chaos management,’ Mogura said, looking Akiyama squarely in the eye.

‘So you do know something about it. Tell me.’

‘Telling you would defeat the purpose. Some of your people already know, anyhow. Only thing is I’ve been enjoying your hospitality since what, November? Can’t say the food was top notch, but I’ve been paid a pretty decent sum to stir things up at someone else’s expense, so no complaints.’

‘What are you talking about?’ Benzai frowned.

Mogura glanced at Benzai, ‘So you’re one of those people still in the dark.’

‘That would be enough for today,’ said one of the lab coats, giving Mogura a sharp tug from behind. Akiyama and Benzai watched him being towed away like some sort of hefty equipment.

‘He would probably be a guinea pig for the rest of his life,’ said Akiyama. ‘Having a criminal record means he wouldn’t have the chance to be taught how to control his Strain powers and then released into society.’

‘Serves him right,’ said Benzai. ‘He’s not telling me anything. I feel there’s a lot I’ve missed out on.’

‘You are right. I fear I owe everyone in Swords an explanation.’

The new voice caused Akiyama and Benzai to jump. Munakata was standing at a side door to the research centre not far from where Akiyama and Benzai were. They hadn’t spotted him when Mogura was here, so he was probably at the research centre earlier and only came out to see them.

‘Were you here for an appointment with the Gold King, sir?’

Munakata chuckled. ‘Not quite. There was an appointment, but I had it with the head of this research centre. We decided it best that Mogura stay here for the foreseeable future. That way, he would have all his Strain powers under strict surveillance, as well as any Clan-bestowed power he might be harbouring since November.’

‘I don’t understand, sir,’ said Akiyama. ‘Everything has been done in a rush for the past few weeks, we don’t really have time to stop and think what it all means.’

‘Hence my saying that I owe most of you an explanation,’ Munakata resumed. ‘To put it simply, you could say that Mogura was behind the phone number-switching in the public directory, but he was acting on someone else’s behalf, borrowing the power and skills he needs off someone else.’

‘Whose power is it that our underground prison couldn’t detect or restrain?’

Munakata’s smile broadened, ‘Can you not think of a possible candidate? Our equipment is designed to control Strain powers only.’

Benzai exchanged a look with Akiyama. ‘Power from a Clan, perhaps?’

Munakata looked satisfied. ‘Clans do not exist because they can turn against each other in the open. Or at least, not all of them prefer taking it out in the open. Some choose to hide in the dark and bide their time until the chance to strike ripens, rather like the way a reptile would hunt.’

‘Still, it doesn’t explain why we are not trying to alter the situation when we are able to,’ Akiyama said, thinking of Fushimi and his mention of ‘Captain’s orders’. ‘Some of us know what’s going on, but are not doing anything.’

‘I figure we could make use of the opportunity and turn it into a temporary emergency training scheme,’ Munakata regarded Akiyama and Benzai fondly. ‘Despite having no clue why things unfolded the way they did, you managed to solve every case, all of you. Would you have achieved this much if I had stepped in a bit earlier?’

Akiyama remembered his numerous encounters with numerous branches of profession and public service over the past few weeks. Draining it might have been, but he now had a much larger contact list than he did before. It was the same with every member from Swords. If they pooled those contacts together, it would be a valuable asset to Scepter 4 and its future operations.

‘There may be some unexpected, or shall I say, _desirable_ side effects to all of this,’ Munakata continued. ‘The public would be relieved to find that their calls would be going to the right place from tomorrow, but the damage has been done. As far as I am aware, the government is now under a lot of pressure having to deal with enraged citizens. That ought to teach _a certain official_ a lesson or two.’

The three of them returned to headquarters together. When the evening news was on, it was announced that the Prime Minister had been deposed earlier during the day, the reason being that he ‘failed to bring under control the telecommunication mayhem that has plagued Greater Tokyo since the beginning of January and instead has been relying on an unofficial police organisation to manage everything without giving them the credit they deserve’.

Munakata was at the cafeteria, although whether he was there to order food was beyond everyone’s guess. He was apparently more interested in the mounted TV, because he sat in front of it throughout dinner, still as a statue. Akiyama was at a rather distant table with Benzai. The news about the Prime Minister had reminded him of what Munakata said earlier about ‘a certain official’. In Akiyama’s opinion, losing the top job was a bit of an overkill when it came to teaching someone a lesson. He knew little of the current - or rather, ex-Prime Minister, apart from bits and pieces of news he occasionally heard about him. The man was never popular; his popularity had dropped further the previous year when he was accused of hushing over the death of a Orange technician. And it didn't appear likely that his successor would fare any better.

‘He has a sly and insincere way about him,’ said Benzai, observing the new Prime Minister making a speech on the TV.

‘A true politician, then.’

‘I never knew the Captain’s into politics.’

Akiyama glanced in Munakata’s direction, which was completely deserted: everyone was sitting somewhere away.

‘You don’t reckon the person behind it all acted on the ex-Prime Minister’s behalf?’

‘Can’t be,’ said Akiyama, thinking hard. ‘The Captain said that person is from a Clan. And a very powerful one, I guess.’

‘Or that he’s in a fairly powerful position in his Clan,’ Benzai supplied. ‘Could be a King if you ask me, although I’m wondering which Clan it could be. We are already on bad terms with the Red King. It’s no good making enemies out of every Clan there is.’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Akiyama, watching the back of Munakata’s coat. ‘I doubt any Clan would outsmart the Captain. I really do.’

‘Here comes another smart one,’ said Benzai, indicating a corner of the cafeteria with his chin. Akiyama turned, and saw Fushimi by the wall, perched on a table, resting his feet on a chair. It suddenly occurred to Akiyama that Fushimi rarely sat, or crouched or lounged like most people. He perched, and seemed always on the lookout for something, ready to fight or flee. The wall he chose to perch against was equipped with a row of heaters, which probably explained why he was there.

‘He’s better off staying here the whole night,’ Akiyama said to Benzai. ‘His room is freezing.’

‘So is ours,’ said Benzai. ‘Unlike the ladies’ quarters, ours doesn’t have central heating, or even proper insulation.’

‘His is worse,’ Akiyama remembered the one time he went to Fushimi’s room. ‘Probably something to do with where his room is located. Right at the end of the corridor and on a corner where the wind is most of the time.’

‘Well, it can’t be all bad. If anything it’s probably cooler than ours in summer.’

Quite inadvertently, the TV Munakata was watching was mounted on the heater-equipped wall. Munakata seemed to have spotted Fushimi quicker than Fushimi spotted him. Akiyama saw Fushimi’s eyes land on Munakata with reluctance, obviously as a result of Munakata catching his attention by one way or another. Akiyama couldn’t tell.

‘I’m off,’ said Benzai, standing up. ‘I’m in the mood for a bath. You coming?’

Akiyama thought about his frantic schedule the previous month. Quick showers had been all he could manage in between dispatches.

‘Sure. I hope the hot water hasn’t been used up.’

‘It might have, what with weather like this.’

 

**†**

Fushimi saw Akiyama and Benzai leave, but just. Munakata wanted him by the TV, and he couldn’t refuse for long. He shifted his weight gingerly so that he was half leaning against the heater without burning himself. He wished Munakata would come over so he wouldn’t have to leave the only source of warmth in the entire cafeteria. He cast another glance around the room: most people had finished dinner and were leaving. He sighed and leapt to his feet.

Munakata smiled at him. Fushimi hesitated, before sitting on the edge of the table and resting his feet on the chair Munakata had drawn up for him. At this, Munakata’s smile became rather amused.

‘Does sitting on the table warm you up better?’

‘What do you mean?’

Munakata’s eyes flicked to Fushimi’s hands before returning to his face, ‘You are cold to the point that it hinders your circulation.’

Fushimi looked down at his hands. His nails were a purplish blue, and he was having trouble moving his fingers. They felt less wieldy than he remembered, like someone else’s.

‘If this is all you wanted to say, I’m getting back to the heater,’ Fushimi didn’t bother hiding the note of irritation in his voice.

‘There are other things I wanted to say,’ Munakata began. ‘I have to thank you for not divulging the details of Mogura’s involvement in everything that has happened last month.’

Fushimi could tell Munakata was being sincere. Unsure how to cope with sincerity from other people, he acknowledged it by means of ignoring it. ‘It wasn’t what I wanted to do, but an order is an order, I guess.’

‘What would you have done if you had been free to act on your own?’

Fushimi thought of Akiyama’s desperate phone call. ‘I probably would’ve told people if they asked. Saves me the trouble of turning them down.’

‘Do you find it hard to turn people down?’

Fushimi frowned. He didn’t like the way Munakata worded the question, nor the quietness of his tone. ‘It’s too much of a bother having to say no to them when they expect the opposite,’ he rephrased in a rather blunt affirmative.

Munakata settled into the back of his chair, looking curious, ‘I wonder who asked you about it in the first place.’

‘Does it matter?’

‘No, but being inquisitive is part of human nature. You said not telling was not what you wanted to do. Perhaps there was a reason behind it.’

‘Which is?’

‘That you are unwilling to hurt people’s feelings, or that you care about what people think more than you realise.’

If Fushimi had been feeling uncomfortable, it was nothing compared to what he was feeling now. He leapt off the table. ‘I’m off,’ he said in a tense voice.

‘I wonder if you are like that with most people, or just a selected few,’ Munakata continued, the look on his face suggesting he was deliberately saying things that he knew Fushimi wouldn’t be comfortable with.

‘You are entertaining some rather pointless ideas,’ Fushimi snapped. ‘I know you like to do that when you’ve got nothing else to do, but it doesn’t mean you can throw it all at me.’

Munakata raised his eyebrows. Fushimi bit his bottom lip, torn between the desire to taunt Munakata further, and the frustration at realising he had been out of line yet again.

‘Contrary to what you believe,’ said Munakata, sounding unfazed, ‘I do have something to do right now. I have a big order coming. My estimation is that it will arrive any time soon, so I will have to go out and have a look.’

Fushimi wasn’t privy to Munakata’s shopping habits, and certainly had no interest in how Munakata chose to have it delivered. Still, the fact that Munakata mentioned it in front of Fushimi suggested it probably wasn’t something overly personal. Far from it, even.

‘Why are you telling me this?’ he looked at Munakata.

‘Because you accused me of having nothing to do,’ Munakata’s voice was sickeningly pleasant.

‘I did _not_ accuse.’

‘Very well. You have your interpretation, and I have mine. Would you like to come to the front gate with me? I think it has probably arrived by now.’

Fushimi didn’t want to leave the warm cafeteria, which made him wonder why he followed Munakata out of it like a pet dog on a leash. Again he noticed and was annoyed that Munakata didn’t appear slightly cold, whereas he had his hands in his trouser pockets and was fighting hard to keep his teeth from chattering.

‘How big is the order?’ he asked, after he figured out his voice hadn’t frozen over.

‘Gargantuan,’ said Munakata, sounding despicably serene. ‘Luckily for us, it will move on without any external force. We just have to see it through for a bit.’

Fushimi gave up trying to work out what Munakata meant. A large ute was parked at the front gate, and two men in yellow overalls were standing there, waiting. When they saw Munakata, they greeted him, and held out a notebook for him to sign.

‘I trust everyone is in a stable condition?’ Munakata asked.

‘Yes, perfectly, sir. We could drive the ute a bit further in so we can get them out more easily.’

‘That would be lovely. Thank you.’

Munakata sauntered to the back of the ute. At a gesture, Fushimi followed him. Before he approached the cage, he caught a whiff of something suspiciously familiar: something warm-blooded, grassy and musky.

‘Say hello to our Strain resident’s new stablemates, Fushimi.’

Fushimi looked up, and found himself gazing at three sturdy, fully-grown horses.

 

**†**

 


	21. The Art of Provocation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: A lot of people asked for Fushimi in pain and/or distress, so here it is - Fushimi so incapacitated he couldn’t even get his hackles up for half the chapter. Sorry, Fushimi.

_‘… He must hurry on, but the path was bad, worse than he had believed it._

_He dared not canter on such a slippery surface. …’_

_(‘South Riding’ - Winifred Holtby)_

 

‘I can’t see why I got landed with this job,’ Fushimi mumbled. He and Lieutenant Awashima - who was called in shortly after him - were putting fresh hay into the three empty stalls while the three new horses waited outside, tethered to a post.

Apparently Fushimi assumed his voice was low enough not to carry across the wall, but it did, partly because he wasn’t paying attention, and partly because Awashima happened to be at the fence nearby. Awashima looked in Fushimi’s direction, ‘Since you called it a “job”, I should expect more commitment and less complaint from you.’

Fushimi clicked his tongue and didn’t argue. Awashima finished her share and went outside to get the horses. She knew where they came from. All three horses were purchased from the same club and had participated in numerous competitions. What Awashima didn’t understand, however, was why the Captain chose such pricey racing horses over ordinary plough horses.

Another hour passed before they finished. Two of the new horses seemed to have a grudge against each other and didn’t want to live next door, which took Awashima a painfully long while to sort out. When she came out of the stables, she spotted Fushimi sitting by the post where they had tethered the horses.

‘You could have helped a bit,’ her tone was icy.

‘You didn’t tell me you needed help,’ Fushimi stood up with a weariness that Awashima didn’t remember seeing in anyone else at Scepter 4. At least, not in anyone his age. She eyed him critically.

‘I heard from the Captain that you have been working fairly hard recently.’

‘So?’

‘There may be two reasons behind this,’ said Awashima. ‘One is that you have a strong sense of commitment, and the other is that you are not as efficient as you used to be because of stress.’ She didn’t miss the way Fushimi snorted at the word ‘commitment’, ‘Which of these, do you think, applies to you?’

‘If you can’t stand the sight of me, just spit it out and I’ll leave straight away.’

‘I never said that.’

‘Fine.’

Awashima tried a different tactic. ‘You should take care of yourself a bit.’

For a moment, Fushimi peered at her as though he genuinely didn’t understand what she meant. They hadn’t been in much contact recently, but Awashima, being second-in-command, was aware of what Fushimi had been up to. Impressed she might be with what Fushimi had achieved, she wasn’t impressed with the lengths he went to get things done. She turned to look at Fushimi again, but he was no longer with her. He had stopped by the heaters in the cafeteria.

‘It’s late. Go back to your room.’

‘In a minute. I have stuff to do here,’ Fushimi’s evasive voice was enough to arouse Awashima’s suspicions.

‘What sort of “stuff”?’

‘Some… follow-up on the Strain-irrelevant incidents from last month - I mean January.’

Awashima didn’t need her two year experience as second-in-command of a police organisation to recognise that Fushimi made a terrible liar. Fushimi was eyeing her as if she was an apex predator; it was the same when he had tried to sneak out on his own before that Orange infiltration mission. The evidence was clear: no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t lie to her.

**†**

Awashima barely suppressed a shudder as Fushimi opened the door to his room. It was like stepping into a freezer. Immediately she noticed the window was open, and there was a thin sheen of moisture on the floor by the wall - snow had drifted in from the open window.

‘You can try sleeping in here for one night if you want to,’ Fushimi mumbled.

‘Close the window.’

Fushimi obeyed. Awashima couldn’t help but suspect that Fushimi was merely humouring her until she arrived at the same conclusion that this room was inhabitable at this time of the year. If so, he was winning - closing the window didn’t help one bit: as the air stagnated, the chill began to seep into her bones.

‘I will inspect a few other rooms to see if they are the same,’ Awashima said, returning to the corridor outside.

‘I’m not sure if that’s a good idea. Some retards would go berserk if a _female_ boss visits at such an hour,’ Fushimi’s voice was very dry.

‘You should _not_ call your work colleague a retard.’

‘I’m calling them what they are.’

‘Fushimi!’

Fushimi threw in the towel under Awashima’s glare. She watched him leave the corridor, before turning to the room next to his.

It was close to midnight when Awashima finished her rounds of inspection. Most of the rooms had poor insulation, but the inhabitants had invariably done one thing or another to remedy the situation as best as they could. Some wore extra jumpers, some had electric blankets, and some took to having a long hot bath before going to bed. Fushimi was the only one who simply let the situation overwhelm him. Either that, or he didn’t understand he was perfectly capable of doing something - anything - to make himself feel better. Awashima remembered the bemusement on Fushimi’s face when she mentioned he should take care of himself a bit. She went down to the cafeteria.

Fushimi sat huddled by the heaters, not moving. He had practically folded himself up so that he could fit into the crevice between the heaters and the corner of the wall, where he could hide in the shadows and melt into the background. As she looked at him, it dawned on Awashima that she wouldn’t have noticed Fushimi at all if she hadn’t known he was somewhere near the heaters. Apart from the warmth, she couldn’t think of anywhere less comfortable to spend a night. But somehow she couldn’t bring herself to make a sound, or do anything to wake Fushimi so she could lecture him on what he should do to make his room a bit more inhabitable. She went back to her own room with a sigh.

**†**

Benzai stood at the mirror and studied his reflection. The weeks after the New Year Operations (their codename for what happened in January) had seen him working long hours indoors, catching up on the huge amount of training sessions he - and sometimes Akiyama - was in charge of. Benzai was not surprised at what he saw in the mirror: the need for sun was top of the list. He returned to his desk and checked his schedule. He had the morning off, followed by a tailored fencing session in the afternoon. He had to spend the morning somewhere off the premises, or risk exhibiting signs of acute cabin fever during his fencing session when he should have been at his best.

It was barely seven o’clock. Benzai left a note at Akiyama’s pillow and left the room. As he went downstairs to the cafeteria, he thought about what he could do for the next few hours. He could get a car, and drive to the seaside or the country. In either case, he had to be off somewhere so he could get fresh air and a bit of sun exposure.

There was apparently no one in the cafeteria, and for some reason it felt hotter than the night before. Benzai examined the wall-mounted heaters: they had been left on all night. He switched them off one by one. The control panel beeped twice, the sound uncomfortably loud in the deserted room.

A shuffling sound from the other side of the heaters caught Benzai’s attention. A rat? A stray cat? Benzai had been living here for two years and had never seen any. Perhaps this was why Lieutenant Awashima came to inspect the dorm rooms the previous night.

He bent over the crevice between the heaters and the corner of the wall. The shuffling grew louder, and something much larger than a cat shifted in the shadows. Before Benzai could make a move, it lost balance and fell ungainly to the floor at his feet, sporting mussed-up hair, lopsided glasses and a look of groggy disorientation.

‘Fushimi?’

Fushimi’s eyes fell on Benzai and widened for a fraction of a second. Then he moved so fast that all Benzai could see was a blur of colours. But Fushimi didn’t get to his feet - the movement terminated with a loud gasp and Fushimi reappeared, lying on his side and curled into a ball. He seemed trapped, unable to move.

‘Are you all right?’

Benzai’s voice spurred Fushimi into further struggle. With an enormous effort, he heaved himself onto his back and attempted to sit up. But he appeared to have lost control of his limbs, and instead of sitting up, he toppled to his side again, reminding Benzai of an upturned turtle that tried yet failed to right itself. Benzai took a step forward and stretched out a hand to pull Fushimi up, who sensed his motive and reacted by shrinking from him so fast that he hit his head against the wall.

‘What were you doing here by the heaters?’

Benzai knew how hard it was to get a reply out of Fushimi about anything, but ask he did, unable to help himself. Fushimi sat with his back to the wall, panting, eyeing Benzai like a wild animal, trapped and worn out, yet biding its time for another counterattack.

‘Why are you here?’ Fushimi’s voice was icy cold.

Benzai was stumped. ‘I was just passing by.’

‘Then resume passing by and get out of my sight.’

Benzai was offended. He didn’t have the patience of a saint like his roommate, and he didn’t appreciate rudeness as an exchange for his desire to help. He stood up, towering over Fushimi who sat and was now eyeing him with more unease than anger.

‘Fine. Shouldn’t have intruded.’

‘What’s going on here?’

Both Benzai and Fushimi turned their heads to find Lieutenant Awashima by the foot of the stairs. At the sight of her, Fushimi let out a frustrated hiss, and Benzai stood still, unrepentant. ‘Just saying hello to Fushimi here,’ he said with a tone that suggested otherwise. Awashima sensed it, and her brow knitted.

‘It sounds like you two were arguing.’

‘No,’ said Benzai without bothering to make his voice less argumentative. He was a bit take aback at this uncontrolled display of temper. He really needed to spend his morning off work before his stress could get the better of him. ‘I was just coming downstairs and saw Fushimi by the heaters,’ he amended, wondering if his voice sounded as matter-of-fact to Awashima as it did to him.

Apparently, it didn’t. Awashima gave him a stern look, ‘I expected better of you,’ then turned to Fushimi. ‘And you should sit still until you regain your motor skills. Given the fact that you sat holed up in that corner all night, I’m surprised you are able to move at all.’

Fushimi ceased struggling, and sat slumped against the wall with a mixed expression of pain and frustration. Suddenly, it dawned on Benzai why Fushimi had behaved the way he did. He was having cramps in every part of his body. Benzai had memories of sleeping hunched over his desk and waking up feeling his arms were about to fall off. He couldn’t imagine experiencing that in every nook and cranny of his body.

‘Sorry,’ he said to Fushimi, who merely glanced in his general direction, looking defeated.

‘Don’t you have the morning off?’ Awashima interjected. ‘Make sure to keep your stress level in check while you are at it.’

Benzai left the cafeteria, feeling, as he rarely did, a tad mortified. He was glad it was only Awashima and Fushimi who were involved. Awashima might be strict, but Benzai could trust her to keep confidences. And Fushimi - Benzai’s stomach churned with a mixture of guilt and relief at the thought - was simply too antisocial to find the whole affair worth retelling. Benzai wished he had caught on quicker about Fushimi’s condition and kept his temper. The image of him standing over a defenceless Fushimi resembled bullying too much for his peace of mind.

He wondered what his roommate Akiyama would say about the matter, but wasn’t mentally prepared to let him know. Not yet. Perhaps not ever.

Awashima leant against the wall and crossed her arms. ‘Well?’

Fushimi clicked his tongue, ’Well what?’

‘Are you planning to sleep cramped up here for another night?’

‘I could go to a hostel, or a night cafe, but I don’t think I’m allowed to.’

‘So you admit the fact that you can’t sleep in this little corner.’

‘Why should I?’

Awashima rubbed between her eyebrows, where a headache was forming and beginning to nibble at her train of thought. ‘Get to your feet.’

‘You said to stay still.’

‘Just do as I say.’

Fushimi obeyed, albeit a little wobbly. The moment he pushed himself away from the wall, however, his knees gave out and he fell in a heap at Awashima’s feet. Awashima moved aside, giving Fushimi some space to rally.

‘Do you still think you can pull off sleeping here for another night?’

‘No,’ Fushimi’s voice was a strange mixture of resigned and vindictive.

‘I have heard stories of people becoming semi-paralysed from sleeping in an awkward posture’ said Awashima. ‘If the damage is severe, the local nervous system may never recover. Do you want to end up like that?’

‘No.’ This time, Fushimi’s voice was devoid of emotion.

Awashima sighed. When she next spoke, her voice was softer, ‘I will think of something about the condition of your room. Before I get back to you, you may go to a hostel if it gets too cold at night.’

‘It’s a lot colder this year.’

‘I’m glad you noticed.’

Fushimi didn’t get a chance to reply. His PDA was beeping. He took it out and pulled a face. When he answered, he didn’t sound annoyed, just reluctant. And from that, Awashima was able to figure out whose call it was.

‘It looks like you have to move on, literally,’ she observed as Fushimi ended the call.

‘I’m not falling on my face when _that person_ is watching.’

‘Well, it appears that you are not in any condition to decline when _that person_ wants you in his office,’ said Awashima. ‘I’m on my way there, anyway. I can explain if you want me to.’

‘Don’t bother.’

‘What does the Captain want?’

‘A spectacle.’

‘Excuse me?’

Fushimi let out a huff of frustration. ‘Nothing.’

**†**

Fushimi couldn’t think of anything worse than what he was going through at the moment. He felt wrong. His whole body felt wrong, all misaligned bones and rusty joints grinding into sockets where they weren’t supposed to be. The only time he felt his body was actually his was when he made the attempt to stand up, because then his bones would creak and cramp and take revenge by not responding to his brain, a situation he was well used to when he was tired, or ill.

He stared at the pair of boots at his eye level. They didn’t belong to Awashima. They belonged to the one and only person in front of whom he would never, ever slip up. And then, as if guessing his thoughts and determined to make him feel worse, the boots dipped, retreating behind the knees as the person lowered himself to catch Fushimi’s eye. And Fushimi was forced to look into the smiling, bespectacled face of his boss.

Instinctively, Fushimi tensed, and the tension failed to trigger its usual fight-or-flight response in him because his limbs were still held captive by an army of pins and needles.

‘Lieutenant Awashima informed me of your situation,’ Munakata began, his tone so pleasant Fushimi wanted to punch him in the face.

‘I’m alright. Leave me alone.’

‘If my memory is correct, you said the same thing last time this happened to you,’ Munakata smiled. ‘I never got to tell you on the spot, but you did destroy my half-finished puzzle board when you chose to stand up and then collapse at the most inopportune moment.’

Fushimi understood what Munakata was talking about, and remembered it himself vividly. He didn’t merely fall ‘at the most inopportune moment’; he fell face-first in front of the man who would end up his future boss, before almost killing one of his subordinates without meaning to. He wished Munakata wouldn’t looked at him at eye level like he was some sort of rare and interesting species in a bio lab.

‘What do you want me to do?’ he asked, hoping the topic of work would diffuse Munakata’s attention.

‘Legwork, unfortunately.’

Fushimi flushed with frustration. He couldn’t help it, and the fact that he realised it made it worse. The teasing in Munakata’s smile grew more pronounced. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’

‘What?’

‘I heard that the minerals in tea help restore the electrolytes in the body to their natural equilibrium. That numbness you are experiencing is caused by the unbalanced electrolytes in your bloodstream. Or so I think.’

Fushimi knew there was only one way to stop Munakata’s nonsensical lectures, and that was to accept whatever he wanted to offer. When Munakata returned with the tea, Fushimi was relieved that he chose to stand nearby, rather than lower himself in front of Fushimi and watch him at eye level like he did before.

‘How long have you been like this?’ Munakata asked.

‘Since Benzai woke me up.’

‘Mr Benzai?’

‘He came down and switched off the heaters. That woke me.’

‘Were you sleeping next to the heaters?’

‘Yes.’

Munakata shifted to look at the little crevice between the heaters and the corner of the wall. ‘It amazes me that you could fit in here at all.’

Fushimi’s eyes followed Munakata’s. Now that he was out of it, he couldn’t help but wonder the same thing.

‘This looks worse than sitting on your legs and putting too much tension on them.’

‘Can’t you stop mentioning that time in the van?’ Fushimi was getting annoyed. Munakata was still in the mood for winding him up, and was, to Fushimi’s dismay, succeeding at an alarming rate.

‘Still, looks can be deceiving. You are likely to have regained control of your legs without realising it. Have a go.’

‘No.’

‘There is no half-finished puzzle board to fall onto and destroy this time.’

Something at the back of Fushimi’s mind snapped. A rush of anger and humiliation coursed through him. He reared up, his back against the wall, his knees tingling, protesting at the sudden motion, but didn’t buckle. The fact that he was now able to stay upright escaped his notice as he glared at Munakata.

‘I said, stop bringing up what happened in that van!’

‘Keep your voice down and drink your tea.’

‘Did you not - ’

‘You heard me.’

Fushimi eyed Munakata, who raised his eyebrows in a wordless command. Fushimi was aware that under normal circumstances, Munakata tolerated his behaviours to a certain extent. This, however, was different. Whether Munakata felt the need to rein him in, or for some reason refused to humour him further, Fushimi didn’t know, but he had been given the signal to stay down, and having vented his feelings, he was now calm enough to visualise the consequence of disobeying. He didn’t want that.

The confrontation lasted no longer than the blink of an eye. Fushimi backed off, leaning against the wall, and Munakata’s expression relaxed into a polite, if slightly distant, smile.

‘How are you feeling?’

It took Fushimi a moment to realise Munakata was referring to his leg cramps. They were still present, but had subsided enough to become manageable. Fushimi sipped his tea, ‘What do you want me to do?’

‘As I said, legwork,’ Munakata resumed. ‘I have a list of places that I would like you to visit. You know that I purchased three horses from a racing club?’

‘So?’

‘Lieutenant Awashima asked me why I spent a considerable amount of budget on racing horses.’

‘Because you can,’ Fushimi snorted.

‘I did it for a good reason,’ Munakata said cryptically. ‘It is my way of earning the trust of certain people, so you will have the permission to visit certain places for a snoop.’

‘I gather these places are on your list?’

‘Yes, among many others.’

‘Is this one of your unofficial secret missions?’

‘You know I would enlist your help for none other than that.’

Fushimi pondered this. ‘When’s the deadline?’

‘Take it slowly. Swift actions on your behalf may attract unwanted attention.’

‘You haven’t given me a scenario. I wouldn’t know what I had to visit those places for.’

‘You will receive instructions by and by,’ said Munakata. ‘Promise me one thing: never tell anyone about this, especially Lieutenant Awashima. There are aspects to it that she may find… disagreeable.’

**†**

 

Fushimi never realised he would be right in predicting that the weather this year was much colder than the previous year. His room remained freezing at night until it was well into mid-spring, although for most of the time he remained oblivious to it. If there was one benefit about his new snoop mission, it was that it required him to travel extensively and sometimes spend the night away from the headquarters, in a hostel or pretty much any place of his liking. Those places had built-in central heating and air conditioning, which meant he actually got to sleep in a proper bed without freezing his toes off or ending up having cramps.

As per the mission itself, it was cryptic as usual. Like the Mogura investigation, Munakata sent Fushimi instructions over the PDA, and instead of letting him have the whole picture, left him in the dark where it didn’t concern him or his progress. However, Fushimi wasn’t stupid. From what he had been doing, he could gather what Munakata wanted him to do. So far, the investigations centred around the club where Munakata bought the horses, but Fushimi could see that to go deeper, he would have to approach the breeders that supplied the horses. Munakata seemed to suspect Strain involvement in how the horses were raised and traded, and that in itself was enough to complicate matters.

Munakata was also right in maintaining that Fushimi take his time. Wheedling information out of people wasn’t something that could be done on the spur of the moment. An instruction as simple as ‘track down a top racer’s vaccination record’ could take days to carry out, partly because racing horses were highly sought after, and partly because some ‘customers’ were actually tax inspectors in disguise, whom the dealers avoided like the plague.

According to Munakata, Strain criminals had become increasingly active since the New Year mayhem. Many conspired with ordinary criminals and specialised in stirring things up undercover. During the course of his ‘snoop’, Fushimi had heard news of the Metropolitan Police CID being caught up in a child abduction case that was actually a Strain incident. He didn’t know whether Scepter 4 was still on collaborating terms with the Metropolitan Police, but he did know that Munakata was aware of everything that happened on both sides, and tweaked his actions accordingly. For his current investigation, Fushimi played the role of a horse dealer who was interested in purchasing the club where Munakata got his three racers.

One afternoon in May, Fushimi returned to the headquarters from his week-long stint in the country for a briefing session with Munakata. He had spent the week at a farm owned by two breeders he bad been dogging, and had to arrange endless appointments with them just to show he was genuinely interested in the mares that were about to foal. He was able to return to Tokyo because he had managed to strike a deal with the breeders so that the foals wouldn’t be sold to another dealer (whom Munakata suspected). It cost him somewhat: he had to leave the car as a form of security deposit and return to Tokyo by train. But since the car was registered under Munakata’s name, Fushimi didn’t suffer too much financially.

The weather was getting warm. When Fushimi entered the headquarters, he was greeted by the sound of Swords members training in the open field. There were also cherry petals on the tarmac, late in season by almost two months compared to the previous year.

Fushimi trailed the trodden petals to the backdoor of the office building so he didn’t have to face the mass of Swords members. From the training ground, he heard the sound of a whistle, then muffled voices, followed by a clearer voice that was distinctly female - Awashima’s. She seemed to be scolding someone.

The briefing was short. There wasn’t a lot to talk about, as Fushimi usually exchanged intel with Munakata via the PDA. The main aim was to renew Fushimi’s premium membership as a trusted racing horse dealer. Fushimi had no idea how much money Munakata forked out just to set him up like that. He decided he didn’t really want to know, either.

Half an hour later, Fushimi left the office building, armed with his membership certificate and another car key. He had to drive back to the country and spend the night there. As he headed towards the garage, he passed the training field. It was almost deserted, save for a lone figure in some sort of dojo or karate uniform. It was doing laps, a white dot against the crimson-gold background of the setting sun. Inexorably, Fushimi’s mind drifted back half an hour earlier when he heard Awashima scolding someone mid-training. Something told him that this person was the one Awashima had scolded, and the laps were his punishment. Fushimi squinted his eyes as the figure came closer: it caught a glimpse of him but didn’t pay attention, and was soon turning in the other direction back towards the other side of the training field. It was a man Fushimi had never met before, and there was a certain springiness in his footsteps that reminded Fushimi of a restless, energetic puppy.

**†**

 Hidaka left the cafeteria and made a beeline for the outdoor training field. The sight of Kusuhara sprawled on the ground and soaked in sweat didn’t surprise him. He nudged Kusuhara with a foot, ‘Get up.’

Kusuhara made a valiant effort to obey, but failed. Hidaka flopped to the ground beside him and began taking out sandwich after sandwich from the paper bag he was holding.

‘Did you get the rice balls?’ Kusuhara asked.

‘Nope. They are sold out.’

‘I thought I smelled something nice.’

‘That’d be the tuna sarnies. Want one?’

Kusuhara heaved himself up with a sigh, ‘I’m not getting anywhere here, am I?’

‘What do you mean?’

Kusuhara took a bite of the sandwich in his hand; then, ‘I’ve been here for ages, and I’m always the one that gets punished for not catching up, or not doing things properly because I just can’t seem to get it right. And it doesn’t matter what type of training I’m in for. It happens all the time.’

Something in Kusuhara’s voice caused Hidaka to turn and look at him. To Hidaka, Kusuhara was the sort of person who always kept a positive outlook on everything. It never occurred to Hidaka that Kusuhara would admit to ‘not getting anywhere’ with an expression of genuine defeat.

‘You’ll get better,’ said Hidaka, stuffing another sandwich into Kusuhara’s hand. ‘You need food to cheer you up. How many laps did you do today?’

‘A hundred.’

‘It’s not a bad thing. Imagine you do a hundred laps each day. The rest of us never get to do that, so one day you will end up the king of laps and we’d have to form a league to beat you on stamina.’

‘But doing well in laps isn’t what I’m here for,’ Kusuhara’s voice was very low.

‘What are you here for, then?’

‘That wasn’t what I wanted to say. Forget it. I - ’

‘Doesn’t matter. What do you think you’re here for?’

Kusuhara looked trapped, but Hidaka prompted him, prompted again. Kusuhara sighed, ‘I - well, when I first joined, I thought it would mean that I’d get to use the Blue Power like the rest of you. Then I’d be able to fight the Strain criminals. But I never thought it’d be this hard to learn the ropes. I’ve been training hard for months now, and still I can’t wield my Blue Power like the rest of you.’

Hidaka frowned, ‘It takes a while to get used to it. Why are you in such a hurry?’

‘I didn’t say I was.’

‘You did.’

‘I didn’t.’

‘Did too.’

Kusuhara hung his head. ‘Fine. I wrote to my old boss from the riot squad the other day.’

‘You’re changing the subject.’

‘I’m not. I thought Mr Kimura - that’s my old boss - was back on duty because his leg wound from that Strain incident last summer had long healed. But he wasn’t at work.’

Hidaka failed to see where this was going, but Kusuhara resumed before Hidaka could interrupt him, ‘My email got forwarded to another riot squad officer, who told me Mr Kimura left the riot squad earlier this year because his leg never healed and he’s got a permanent limp. But he never told me. When I emailed him after new year, he said everything was fine, and that he believed I’m doing well here, but I’m not.’

Hidaka sat back and pondered this. Finally he said, ‘I’m sorry about your old boss, but I still don’t see why it’s got anything to do with you having to speed up your training. I used to do a lot of laps too. I guess you just have to plough through. Just try get around that block you’re facing.’

Kusuhara was silent for a long time. Then very slowly, he got to his feet, wincing a little as he did.

‘Where are you going?’ Hidaka asked.

‘The training room.’

Hidaka sprang up, ‘You’re not training at night?’

Kusuhara turned to look at him, ‘If I’m not getting anywhere, it might be because I’m not doing it right. Maybe I’ll fare better when I’m alone.’

Hidaka stared. Then, as if realising something, his face split into a huge grin. ‘I get it. You are nervous around the lieutenant.’

‘What? No!’

‘You are. She happens to supervise most of your training and you always mess it up because you are nervous around her. That’s why you think you might get better when she’s not around. Do you fancy her?’

Even in the dark, Hidaka could see Kusuhara blushing scarlet. ‘I don’t!’

‘Do so.’

‘Do not!’

Hidaka laughed and grabbed Kusuhara into a headlock. ‘Deny however you like. If you take to night training and get better, it’d be the solid proof that you do fancy her. But you’ll have to be careful. I heard you should never enter one of the training rooms over in that back building at night.’

‘Why not?’

Hidaka scrunched up his face to recall what he had heard from Goto earlier in the month. ‘People say a ghost lurks there and preys on newbies like you,’ he said slowly. ‘A huge ghost, like a behemoth. If you fight it we’ll probably end up having to pick scraps of you from between its fangs.’

‘And you believe that?’

‘I don’t, but it’d be a shame to deny it only to have you snatched away. You know we’ve got several training rooms in pretty much every building. If you stay away from that particular building you should be fine.’

Kusuhara wrestled out of Hidaka’s grasp, ‘I don’t believe in ghost stories.’

‘Well, who knows? You are the king of laps, and you have power boost at night when the lieutenant isn’t around. The odds could well be that you run into this ghost and end up beating it. Then Lieutenant Awashima would be hugely impressed and you’d win her heart. Now that’s what I call a grand scheme.’

‘I do _not_ fancy Lieutenant Awashima!’

Hidaka laughed, ‘I’ll see you in the morning. Good luck.’

 

 

 


	22. Sweep and Charge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N 1: Yet more readers asked for Fushimi whump. What have you done to deserve this, Fushimi?
> 
>  
> 
> A/N 2: I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to post this chapter. The first half was written weeks ago but I didn’t get started on the second half until last weekend as I had been in the process of changing jobs. I’ve also adjusted the storyline a bit to accommodate some reader requests (read: to cause someone more suffering), so hopefully that keeps you happy :-)

_‘Solitude gives birth to the original in us, to beauty unfamiliar and perilous - to poetry._

_But it also gives birth to the opposite: to the perverse, the illicit, the absurd. ’_

_(‘Death in Venice’ - Thomas Mann)_

 

†

Fushimi sat in the small, dimly-lit waiting room, and scowled at a framed picture on the wall. The picture showed a polo team posing with their horses, and the smile on the players’ faces caused Fushimi’s scowl to deepen. He was here to see the manager of this polo club, but despite his ‘reputation’ as a very important dealer, the reception had sent him to this little room to wait, which happened half an hour ago.

This was not the first club manager Fushimi had met. During the course of his mission, he had manoeuvred his way into their inner circle, attended their networking events, and was now privy to the secret dealings among various equestrian sports organisations within greater Tokyo.

He scowled at the picture again, partly because he had nothing else to do, and partly because the four men in the picture were sporting triumphant, ear-to-ear grins that annoyed him. One of the men, the shortest of them, had a shock of bright blond hair and the beginning of a moustache that set him apart from the other younger, more clean-shaven players. Fushimi frowned; unless he was mistaken, he felt he had seen this man somewhere before …

The door to the waiting room banged open with little ceremony. A man came in, preceded by his protruding belly and clad in a suit that was simply too tight on him. Fushimi leapt to his feet, not out of respect, but out of shock. This man was the chief inspector from Metropolitan CID; Fushimi had met him the year before when he was on the Orange murder case. Even months apart, Fushimi still remembered every tiny detail of their meeting: how arrogant the man was, how self-centred and out of touch he was; even their parting words, which the inspector shouted behind Fushimi’s back, rose to the forefront of Fushimi’s mind with vehement clarity. The inspector had been right: that day at Orange Headquarters wouldn’t be the last time they saw each other.

For the briefest moment, Fushimi’s eyes darted toward the picture again. The blond polo player was the inspector’s younger self, he was now sure of it. When he again looked at the inspector, the man was chuckling.

‘That was twenty years ago,’ he said, pointing at the picture. ‘I was captain of our local team.’

Fushimi studied the inspector. The man didn’t seem to recognise him, which was just as well.

‘Are you the manager of this club?’

‘Oh no, but I’m on the board of directors. I heard you were here to see the manager. He is off sick today, which explains why I’m here.’

‘I wasn’t told he would be absent.’

The inspector descended on the couch and squeezed a groan out of it. ‘We all have those days, young man. We all do. But business cannot wait. I will call reception to get some tea for us.’

Fushimi ran through the plan in his head. The manager was his - and Munakata’s - primary suspect; with the suspect gone, the plan was no longer feasible. He would have to improvise. He sat down on the opposite couch.

They introduced themselves before tea was served. Fushimi gave a fake identity, and the inspector did the same - he gave a codename and his profession as ‘retired government agency worker’. Fushimi wasn’t too concerned with codenames; he had learnt enough about the horse racing industry to know that it was an idiosyncrasy of the trade. He looked carefully at the card the inspector had given him.

‘When did you retire?’

‘End of last year,’ said the inspector, dumping spoonful after spoonful of sugar in his tea. ‘I don’t suppose you young people are aware of it. There was a murder case end of last year and a lot us government employees got the blame.’

Fushimi was aware, perhaps more so than anyone else, but it was not the point. ‘When did you join the board of directors here?’

‘I have been here nearly half of my life. Any more questions, no? Good. Let’s get down to business. You know why the manager wants to sell the club, do you?’

‘He’s had enough,’ Fushimi quoted the message.

‘Yes, yes, but it’s not easy to retire a business, however dwindling it may be. He wants to sell off his horses first, one step at a time. May I see your certificate?’

Fushimi produced it, and watched the secretary take it to the photocopier. Then he turned to the inspector, ‘So the board agree with the manager?’

‘Not all of us,’ said the inspector. ‘We did get one or two stubborn conservatives, but the majority wins. They say the Association wants to merge most of the smaller clubs.’

‘So it hasn’t occurred to you to contact a larger club and merge with them.’

The inspector looked at Fushimi critically, ‘Are you interested in starting your own business?’

‘No. I’m just a horse dealer.’

‘Then kindly keep your opinions to yourself. Young people these days never know when to keep their mouths shut, and they are still asking why they lost the deal, or a job.’

Fushimi fell silent. If the inspector remembered who he really was, the game would be up. He couldn’t risk that.

They spent the rest of the morning going through the deal. The inspector took Fushimi to the stables, showed him the two horses he was about to purchase, then took him to a large file room where they sat down to a pile of paperwork. The club owns ten horses in total, enough to keep two polo teams and a couple spares, but polo was falling out of fashion - according to the inspector - and small clubs had to sell off their horses as racers, or to the farm, or - if the animals were past their prime - to the slaughterhouse.

After the two horses were put on the transit vehicle and shipped off to the address Fushimi had given them, he returned to the meeting room with the inspector. The deal was closed. All that was left was yet more paperwork.

‘I’m rather curious to know where you will be sending them,’ said the inspector, pointing at the photo of the two horses he had just got rid of.

‘They are the best of a bad lot. If it’s not worth selling them to another club I’ll try a farm.’

The inspector snorted, ’Horses born and bred to run will never survive the ploughs. A petting zoo would be better, if not equally pathetic.’

‘They are not cuddly ponies and never trained to deal with children.’

‘Huh, fair enough. You are still young, though. You might suss out some place other people haven’t heard of. If all fails, there’s always the butchers.’

‘Those horses weren’t raised for their meat, either.’

‘Neither were they raised for a zoo, or a farm,’ the inspector was beginning to sound irritated. ‘A proper dealer would lead a horse to the butchers without batting an eyelid if death is all they are fit for. How long have you been in the trade?’

‘Since I left school. Family business,’ Fushimi lied smoothly.

‘You obviously haven’t seen many horses that are past their use-by date. Not even the butchers want them.’

Fushimi realised he wouldn’t get much useful information on the manager this way, and would rather throw himself out of the window than humour a Metropolitan Police officer who once insulted him. He glanced around, looking for clues. There was an air outlet on the ceiling, and yet another picture on the wall. He looked at it while the inspector was busy signing documents. It was a group photo of people at and above management level: six members on the board of directors, one chief executive, one marketing director, and the manager. Fushimi read the names quickly before matching them with the faces. Before he could get to the manager, however, the inspector straightened. Fushimi wasn’t quick enough to shift his attention, and turned to find the inspector eyeing him with a look of intense dislike and - unless he was mistaken - suspicion.

‘What are you sneaking around for?’

‘Nothing.’

‘It’s a matter of professionalism that you should pay attention to your business partners,’ the inspector sounded cross. ‘I can’t work out why the manager chose you. I would have picked someone a bit older and more experienced.’

Fushimi fought down the desire to attack the inspector, ‘My apologies.’

The deal had drawn to a close. Fushimi’s common sense informed him that he couldn’t linger, let alone ask more questions. And, most importantly, he couldn’t risk spending any unnecessary second in the inspector’s company in case the man’s memory caught up with him. The inspector showed him the door, and he walked out of it without so much as a backward glance.

The moment the inspector returned to his office, Fushimi went to the side of the building where he had signed the documents. He was now outside the meeting room. He had to somehow get inside without being caught and have a careful look at the picture of the manager. It was his only chance of tracking the man down.

The curtains were half-drawn. Fushimi leant against the wall and took out his PDA, pretending to be an innocent passer-by. A maintenance vehicle drove past, then a rubbish truck. A few yards ahead, a woman and her children were waiting at the tram stop. The coast appeared to be clear. Fushimi walked away and stopped until he was halfway between the club and the tram stop, and turned with the signal port of his PDA pointing at the club building. After a few seconds, his PDA vibrated, and a message appeared: _No Security Camera Detected._ And with that, he put his PDA back to his pocket and returned to the building.

 

†

Fushimi lay flat on his stomach and held his breath. He was in the pipe. Again. And unfortunately for him, this pipe had a rather high tech-looking air conditioner at the end of it. The inspector appeared to have switched on the air conditioning at full gear, which, apart from blowing dusty and mouldy-smelling air into the outlet, was also scanning the surrounding passages for foreign objects. If Fushimi made a sound, the air conditioner would detect him, and he really didn’t want to imagine what would happen next.

His eyes followed the string of red light coming out of the detection system while his brain tried to work out a scanning pattern. If he could somehow get past the area, he would be directly above the air outlet he had seen when he was in the room earlier. Then he would be able to open the vent and steal a look at the manager’s picture on the wall and then continue his investigation.

When the scanner went past, Fushimi twitched his fingers slightly. They were spread out on the surface of the passage floor and coated in dust. The movement went undetected. Encouraged, he grew bolder. He pushed himself off the surface and into a semi-crouching position. The scanner was now on its way back, moving in a simple, zig-zagging fashion that didn’t quite cover the entire area. Fushimi shifted slightly, and the shuffling went undetected. He was right: the alarm didn’t go off unless he was within the scanned area and with the red light passing directly over him. He began to crawl.

After a couple minutes of waiting, dodging and fast moving, he was at the air outlet and out of reach of the scanner. His palms were slimy with a mixture of dust and sweat. He wiped them on his knees and shifted to open the vent. It did not budge. He tried again, using both hands to prise as hard as he could until his nails began to bleed. Finally, it yielded with a rusty, gurgling sound that felt to Fushimi like an explosion. Forgetting where he was, he shrank back, and banged his head on the side of the passage. The dull thud seemed to reverberate through the entire building. Ignoring the pain, Fushimi threw himself face down over the vent and was as still as a corpse. From the other side of the vent, he could hear noises: mumbled voices and footsteps. He closed his eyes, forcing his brain to concentrate. The voices began to emerge and distill.

‘… was just fixing the photocopier …’ the secretary was saying.

‘Damn the photocopier! It came from the ceiling!’ came the inspector’s voice. ‘If it’s not the maintenance man, it has to be a mouse, and I don’t remember calling maintenance for weeks and weeks.’

‘But, sir, it would have to be a really huge mouse to have cause that clunk - ’

‘I don’t care what it is or how big it is. I’m expecting another dealer in half an hour and I can’t have a mouse banging around the pipe like that! Get pest control for me!’

Fushimi’s heart sank. He definitely had to get out of here before pest control came. He shifted till his face was inches from the vent and looked through the slits. He could just make out the crown of the inspector’s head, and a flash of black high heels: the secretary was leaving, obviously on her way to contacting pest control. He tilted the vent sideways and began to search for the picture.

The inspector had returned to his desk. Fushimi’s eyes followed him, and as he did so his fingers adjusted the vent. He was in luck: from the angle he was at, he could just make out the top half of the picture, and the manager happened to be standing at a corner in the top row. Fushimi squinted; the manager’s name was in shadows. He took out his PDA and zoomed in as best as he could, and snapped a close-up. He could go somewhere safe and process it later.

He stuffed the PDA back into his pocket and closed the vent. Before he did, however, he caught sight of the inspector looking up at the ceiling, and his instincts caused him to shift away from the vent in case he was seen. He had forgotten about the air conditioning, as well as the fact that by adjusting the vent he was disturbing the air flow. The inspector must have sensed it and was now feeling suspicious. Fushimi curled in on himself as best as he could and remained still. Inches to his side, the scanner was moving back and forth in its usual zig-zag fashion. He closed his eyes again and concentrated on hearing. The high heels were returning, and the inspector was stomping away. Then came the slam of the door.

‘Pest control will be here in half an hour, sir.’

‘Half an hour? There’s definitely something funny up there right now,’ said the inspector. ‘Whatever it is, mouse or not, it’s blocking the air flow.’

The sound of sniffing, ‘The air smells like dust, sir.’

‘Good God, so it does. When was the last time the pipes were cleaned?’

‘Early spring, sir.’

‘Early spring? It’s early summer now. Who knows what died up there and decomposed?’

‘But pest control says - ’

‘To hell with pest control. Get me security and the cleaners. Your manager may think he doesn’t have to keep the place clean now that he’s selling it. I’m not surprised he’s off sick.’

Fushimi scrambled away from the vent and began making his way out as fast as the scanner would allow him. He skirted around the detection area, desperately avoiding contact. Outside, he could hear human voices, the clang of vacuum cleaners and an assortment of household appliances. If he wasn’t quick, it wouldn’t take long before they found out that the ‘mouse’ they were hunting was much larger than they thought.

The entrance to the pipe was concealed in a walk-in closet on the ground floor. To get there, Fushimi had to crawl his way back while keeping himself flat against the passage floor. It wasn’t until he started to make the journey back when he realised that there were a number of smaller vents along the way - all fastened but definitely un-lockable in case of maintenance work - or emergency. And sure enough, the sound of keys and metal could be heard everywhere around him, ahead and behind. A few inches ahead of him, a locked air outlet was poked open with a bang, and the head of a vacuum cleaner burst in and began banging around blindly. Whoever was using it didn’t seem to want to switch it on and suck him out - the aim was to make as much racket as possible and scare him away.

As Fushimi stayed still and arrived at this conclusion, another vent near him was unlocked, and something long and metallic poked in. Fushimi startled as it scraped his shin, and he scrambled away so fast he smashed head-first against the other side of the passage.

‘It’s in here! Right here!’

‘Where?’

‘Here - right between these two outlets. Didn’t you hear the banging? Let me - ’

Fushimi wasn’t quick enough to realised he was leaning directly against another vent. He barely had time to shift away when it burst open and something flashed silver-white and lunged at him. It collided with his forearm, and he heard the dull, nauseating sound of metal crunching against bone as he fell in a lump over another vent, where a crowbar lay waiting, attached to the end of a stick. Someone gave a yelp of surprise - Fushimi couldn’t tell - and the crowbar found purchase in his ribs with a viciousness that knocked the wind out of him. He doubled over, blinded in a sea of agony. Below, the men were chattering excitedly.

‘I got something! It was doing a runner, so I poked it as hard as I could!’

‘Is it dead?’

‘I hope not. I don’t want to go up there and dispose of the body. Let’s keep quiet and see if it’s still there. Maybe I scared it off.’

‘You don’t need to go up. Just use the hoover and suck it out. Let me.’

The head of the vacuum cleaner came roaring in. It made contact with the sole of Fushimi’s shoes, and the roaring intensified as it took hold. But Fushimi didn’t move, nor could the vacuum cleaner move him. After a few seconds of intensive sucking, the machine disconnected.

‘Got anything?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Told you you couldn’t have killed a rat with a crowbar unless you’re sure you’ve been aiming at it properly. It must have done a runner.’

The voices subsided. Fushimi lay on his side and tried hard not to wheeze. The onslaught of pain was gone, but he could tell something was seriously wrong. He couldn’t breathe properly. The air seemed to be rushing in and out of him without leaving its oxygen content behind, which made him feel nauseous and dizzy. He lay still for a bit longer, then slowly pushed himself up into a sitting posture. His arm felt funny, too. The unknown object had hit it slightly below the elbow, and now he couldn’t feel anything, wasn’t even sure whether it was still attached to his upper arm. He looked at it and tried moving the wrist. He heard the sound of bone grinding in rusty socket, but his hand remained limp and still. He tried prodding it with his other hand, but his injured forearm seemed composed of nothing but funny bones, and the slightest touch sent him face-down to the passage floor, wheezing and gasping, unable to move.

He lay where he was for a long time. How long, he lost track and couldn’t be bothered finding out. At last, he stirred at the sound of footsteps. Someone was coming back to this room. He recognised the click, click, click of high heels and the thud, thud, thud of suede oxfords.

‘They think it’s gone, sir.’

‘I hope it has. Nasty little vermin. They say rats are the first to settle in when a business is going downhill. They start burrowing in your office and running amok.’

‘How was the appointment with the second dealer?’

‘Not too disastrous. Sold half a dozen horses, although the price was ridiculous. Now only a handful left,’ then a short pause. ‘Why are all the vents open?’

‘The men were poking around to scare off the mouse.’

‘Close them all, and call in maintenance to do a thorough cleaning of all the pipes. Is pest control here?’

‘They came when the cleaners were poking around. They left this.’

‘Hmm, sprays. It’s always sprays with them. Found something untoward? Give it a good old spray. And what happens then? It survives and comes back the next morning!’

Fushimi found an open vent nearby and bent over it with difficulty. The inspector had settled down behind his desk with a cup of tea, and judging by the look of content on his face, maintenance were on their way here. Fushimi shifted away and began inching toward the exit. His injuries made him lightheaded and his movements painfully slow, so slow he barely made a sound as he moved, which was just as well. If he was heard again, he wasn’t sure he could survive another round of cleaners and their equipment.

When he made it to the exit, which was above the walk-in closet and the same way he had entered, it was already dark outside. People were off work, the building locked up. Fushimi used his PDA torch to survey the area. He was sitting by the pipe entrance, and beneath him was a jumble of household appliances - things the cleaners had used to hunt him down.

He shifted slightly until his legs dangled from the pipe entrance. Going down was inherently easier than going up, injured or not. The journey through the long, winding pipe had exhausted him. Too tired to find safe lodgement for his feet, he shifted forward and let himself drop. The mistake only made itself apparent when he hit the pile of household appliances. Many of them had a long, metal handle that jutted out, and as he fell on top of them, they poked him and aggravated the injuries in his ribs. Winded and defeated by pain, he lay still for a long time and used all his willpower to not pass out.

By the time he gathered enough strength to wrench open the window and get out, it was late evening and there was hardly anybody in the streets. He dragged himself to the tram stop and sat down on the bench, sinking into it. He still couldn’t feel anything in his injured arm; his ribs hurt and the need for air made him groggy and sluggish. He couldn’t do anything at the moment, not even extracting information out of the snapshot he had taken of the manager’s photo.

He buried his face in his knees. It made him feel slightly safer, although it made breathing more difficult. He closed his eyes and listened for the sound of approaching tram. He might catch the next one and go back to the City. There he could get a room at a hostel where there would be free internet, and start work. If he worked hard enough, he would be able to ignore how painful his injuries were. He couldn’t remember ever being in so much pain before; he probably had to work harder than he ever did to be able to override it …

 

†

Kusuhara stood in a semi-defensive hunch, his eyes on the single droplet of light radiating off the blade in front of him. Presently the blade disappeared, but in its absence the droplet of light seemed to remain and grew larger, more substantial. The moment it crossed Kusuhara’s mind, he leapt.

‘I was only pretending to charge.’

The voice dripped, low and rumbling, from the shadows. Kusuhara kept very still, his heart hammering. Suddenly he realised why he had been so tense. He couldn’t see the man he was facing, because the man belonged to the shadows, and his shadowy presence was enough to wipe out everything that dared stand in his way.

Kusuhara blinked into the darkness, sensing, not seeing. ‘I don’t understand why you aren’t a training supervisor.’ The underlying message: _you are too formidable to not be one._

The shadows pondered, then receded a little. The lump of a man emerged, clad in training outfit. The bulk of his torso came to an unbalanced end at the beginning of the left sleeve. Kusuhara’s eyes, however, were on the man’s face.

‘I was a training inspector,’ said Zenjo. ‘But that was a long time ago, and didn’t last.’

Sensing Zenjo was no longer regarding him as potential prey, Kusuhara relaxed a little. ‘What happened?’

Zenjo lumbered past without answering. Kusuhara had to make a conscious effort not to strike in self-defence as Zenjo’s empty sleeve brushed against his shoulder. A tiny corner of his brain clicked: this man must be the midnight ghost everyone has been talking about. He turned and followed Zenjo’s retreating figure with his eyes.

Close to the door, Zenjo stopped. ‘I’m not supposed to be here,’ he said slowly. ‘Someone is bound to find out.’

Kusuhara thought for a moment, ‘I’m sorry if I disturbed you - ’

‘Not you,’ said Zenjo. ‘Someone else.’

Kusuhara struggled for words, ‘If you don’t mind me asking, why are you training alone in the middle of the night?’

Zenjo remained motionless. Why, indeed? He had decided not to wield his sword again a long time ago. The things he used to fight for had long ceased to exist, had died along with the one man he had once sworn allegiance to. Come to think of it, the first time he returned to the training room at night was the very day Awashima had asked him to be the training inspector. He remembered her very words - ‘you know better than I that you want to’ - and with that, he had attended and inspected her training session without agreeing to take on the job. Had he really wanted to wield his sword, or simply to watch someone else do it?

The shadows around Zenjo didn’t move, but suddenly, Kusuhara could sense something else. Or worse, _someone._ There was someone here with them, watching them. For reasons he couldn’t fathom, the realisation didn’t make Kusuhara feel nervous. If anything, he felt calmer than before. He caught up with Zenjo, who was stock still.

‘Excuse me,’ said Zenjo, a little faster than Kusuhara anticipated. He slipped on his outdoor shoes and lumbered away, leaving Kusuhara by himself on the doorstep. Kusuhara turned. He could still sense the third person around, although it was only the two of them left now that Zenjo was gone. He wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do. Keep training? As much as he enjoyed training by himself, he didn’t feel like being watched by someone out of the unknown. And with Zenjo gone, he wasn’t sure if he was supposed to stay at all.

In the end he locked up the training room and returned to the dorm. Lying in his bed, he stretched out his limbs and tried to imagine what it was like to be Zenjo, or this other person. There was something about him - them - that intrigued him. Where they were, it felt different, as if the air itself was at their command. Could it be their aura? Kusuhara closed his eyes and concentrated on what was inside him. The power granted by the Blue King lay dormant within him, he could sense it. This was why he didn’t do well at any of his training sessions: he was always trying to unleash his power without first awaking it.

He rolled over. The decision was made before he drifted off to sleep. He would go to the training room tomorrow night and practise waking up his powers. He wasn’t sure whether Zenjo would be there again. In case he wasn’t, Kusuhara would go knock on his door and ask him to come. Somehow, Kusuhara felt Zenjo was the man who held the key to many an unsolved mystery, and that if he managed to unlock Zenjo, he would eventually unlock all the answers he needed. How and when, he couldn’t quite formulate yet. At this stage, only one thing was certain: he would visit the training room tomorrow night, and every night after.

 

†

Fushimi stirred at the sound of approaching tram and chattering children. He opened his eyes. The morning sun dazzled and confused him. He blinked at the golden-white lump that moved and blocked his line of vision. It came closer.

‘Look!’

Fushimi flinched at the shrillness of the voice. It was a child, its back to the sun, a hat on its head. It was bending over him, because he was lying curled up on the bench. Realising this, he bounced up, and the child shrank back in surprise.

‘Come quick!’

More golden-white lumps. More children. Fushimi sat with his back to the bench and glared at the semicircle of half-grown humans in front of him. As his eyes adjusted to daylight, he was beginning to make out their faces: little children, boys and girls, most of them no more than seven years old.

‘Good morning!’ said one of the children in a sing-song voice. Then the rest of them joined in, and Fushimi’s head began to ache.

‘Get away.’

‘The tram’s coming!’ came a woman’s voice from somewhere a little off one side. At this, the children began to file off, but without first giving Fushimi a curious once-over. Once the last of the children were gone, Fushimi leant back and allowed his adrenaline to settle down. He couldn’t remember feeling this awful before. There was a dull ache in his ribs and left forearm, and he was covered in dust from head to foot.

‘Don’t wander off on your own,’ Fushimi heard the woman talking to the children.

‘We saw a boy down that end. On the back bench.’

‘A young boy?’

‘No, taller than us. He just woke up.’

‘I can’t imagine anyone sleeping out here at a tram stop,’ said the woman. ‘Don’t talk to strangers, and especially not someone who can’t find a bed for the night. That boy you were talking about might be a tramp.’

‘What’s a tramp? Is it someone who lives on a tram?’

‘No, dear. Tramps have nothing to do with trams. They can’t afford boarding a tram. Now go in a line and say good morning to the driver. Off you go.’

Fushimi stood up. Given his current state, he couldn’t be bothered feeling indignant at what the woman said about him. He had, however, remembered that he needed to catch the tram to town, so he used his uninjured hand to dust himself down as best as he could, before emerging and joining the queue boarding the tram. Between him and the children were several teenagers in school uniforms. A few of the girls sniggered at him. He ignored them.

The tram was packed after two more stops. There was no seat anywhere, so Fushimi leant against the window and did his best to keep to himself. His memories had returned, along with the pain in his arm and ribs. He needed somewhere to sit down, but couldn’t sit on the floor in case people gave him funny looks. He closed his eyes and began to curse fluently in his head.

He got off at the first major stop in the city centre. He could have stayed for a few more stops and grabbed a seat, but he couldn’t stop himself being swept away by the stream of people, and in the end decided to follow suit in case any resistance would result in a rather unseemly death by trampling. He shuffled off the tram stop and began making his way towards a quieter spot, which soon proved to be impossible as the morning rush buzzed on. He gave up and sank into a garden bench in front of a shopping mall. He would move on once his legs no longer felt like water. He took out his PDA and began scouting for free internet.

 

†

Kusuhara emerged from his room, dressed and ready for the day. He had had an usually good dream last night, given that he rarely had dreams. And he was happy, which amazed and annoyed his squad mates a great deal.

‘You do know we have a full day today, do you?’

‘Why are you asking? Just give him a whack around the head and leave me in peace.’

‘Why are you bossing me around?’

Bright-eyed, Kusuhara watched the usual morning bickering unfold between Hidaka and Goto. ‘I had a really good dream last night,’ he informed them.

‘Oh, really? Let me guess. Did you dream about getting laid at last?’

‘No.’

‘How about snogging Lieutenant Awashima?’

‘No!’

‘Confessed your earth-shattering love to Lieutenant Awashima by challenging her to a duel?’

‘NO!’

‘Well then I failed to see why you’d care to call it a good dream. You have a very primitive definition of good.’

Kusuhara ignored the pair of them, ‘I just dreamt that I became really, really powerful. Literally.’

‘Huh?’

‘Come again?’

Kusuhara looked down at his hands. He could do it. He knew he could.

‘One day I will show you. One day.’

 

†

 

Injured as he was, it didn’t take Fushimi long to forget about physical discomfort and become fully immersed in his work. The snapshot he took of the manager’s name and photo was an enormous help; within an hour, he was able to locate and access the man’s files at three different locations: the Tokyo Equestrian Sports Association, the Metropolitan Police, and the magistrate’s court. And since Fushimi’s job as a horse dealer was done with the board of directors, he would have to find some other excuse and identity to approach the man with. He put his PDA back and began to think.

His pocket vibrated. He took out his device and saw a message on the screen.

_How are things going?_

_M -_

Fushimi snorted, and the huff of air caused a vicious twinge in his ribs. He sat hunched over until the pain resided, then -

_Deal closed. No sign of suspect, though._

Fushimi hesitated. Should he tell Munakata about the Metropolitan Police inspector? He tapped the ‘delete’ button.

_Deal closed. Suspect absent and allegedly off sick. I’m sussing out his whereabouts._

_F -_

This was all he needed to tell Munakata at the moment. He stared at the screen, thinking hard. He probably should have sent Munakata a copy of his snapshot, if only for the sake of providing (and possibly receiving) a hint or two.

Just as he was about to compose a new message, the screen flashed with Munakata’s incoming reply.

_Do you think suspect might be lying?_

_M -_

_In a way, yes. But I have no proof._

_F -  
_

_Can you show me something or anything you discovered on site, please?_

_M -  
_

Fushimi transmitted the snapshot. Then, a moment later -

_Thank you. The information on the picture confirmed my guess._

Fushimi glared at the screen. Of all that Munakata could have told him, this was the worst. The information ‘confirmed’ his guess. So what? What was his guess, then? Everything had always confirmed his something; the all-knowing git. Fushimi was seized with a sudden desire to type what he was thinking and send it to Munakata. He only desisted when the second half of Munakata’s message arrived.

_Sorry to have kept you waiting. I did a little research of my own and found this address._

_M -_

Fushimi stared at the address. On top of it was the club manager’s name and job title. And the job title was: General Practitioner, specialising in paediatric nutrition.

_Are you winding me up? Since when did this man start practising as a GP?_

_F -_

_It should be in his files and kept on record somewhere. I want you to go and visit him at his clinic._

_M -_

_You want me to go see a paediatrician?!_

_F -_

_Just trust me and go. You are a teenager, so you are still eligible. There is no need to fake an excuse. I hate to break this to you, but in nine cases out of ten, you pass for a patient with perfect believability. He would never suspect anything. Just tell him you have a migraine if you have to._

_M -_

Fushimi shoved his PDA back into his pocket, fuming. He felt insulted, not because Munakata had said he looked sickly all the time, but because Munakata had mentioned how he looked. Had Munakata said he looked in good health, he would have felt equally insulted. He hated it when people commented on anything personal about him, because it would force his attention back onto himself as he processed those comments, and he hated that more than anything else.

 


End file.
